


Dancing, With Our Hands Tied

by Michelleleahhh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Female Reader, Forbidden, Forbidden Love, Infertility, Infidelity, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Jotunn | Frost Giant, Kink, Kinks, Loki Doubles, Longing, NO rape, Other, Porn, Pregnancy, Rough Sex, Second Chance Romance, Sex, Sex EVERYWHERE, Threesome, Vaginal Sex, all the sex, everywhere, literally just porn with a side salad of plot, m/f/m, no y/n, what plot?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelleleahhh/pseuds/Michelleleahhh
Summary: Thor’s infidelity was honest, pure, and laden with regret. Yours is not; it’s clever, chaotic, and vengeful.Maybe that’s why you find yourself in his brother’s bed. Not that Loki minds your motives.





	1. first sight, we love without reason

* * *

 

Inspired by [I'll Never Tell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13157154/chapters/30091233) by Hurricanerin. 

I've literally read it 800 times since I've discovered it months ago and couldn't get the idea of Jotunn Loki out of my head. 

Anyway, this was meant to be a one shot, but as always... it spiraled. Some people may have seen it posted on my Tumblr.    

 

 

 

*Jotunn Loki for mood board. 

* * *

 “I’m sorry,” He finishes with a choked whisper.

What even is the word _sorry_?

If someone does something, knowing the pain it would bring, knowing the seething betrayal you’d feel from the action… then how can _sorry_  help?

Your husband kneels in your personal chambers, blonde head resting in your lap as he waits for you to respond to his solemn confession. But you don’t want to. You don’t want him here. Don’t want him touching you. Not after he touched her. He’s ruined. Tainted. Your marriage bed has turned to ashes.  
  
“Leave.” You say icily, pushing his blazing touch off of you.  
  
“Don’t do this,” Thor pleads, his deep voice booming in desperation. “It was nothing - a mistake. A one time, drunken mistake. It will never happen again. Never.”  
  
You stand, interrupting his speech, and pace to the door. Folding your arms across your chest, you let the betrayal seep into your pores and pool in your eyes. Tears form as you think about him. Your loving, boisterous husband.

 Thor... and Sif.

You always knew there was a possibility of them, always knew Thor’s closest companion held a torch for him. But, you never thought, never believed your husband would actually act on it. He is yours, just as you are his.  
  
He’s been under pressure though, you both have. But you know that he has been blamed for your faults, for what you can’t do. You’re failing him.  
  
“What if you gave her a child? Is that why? Did your- did Odin tell-” you pause the tears starting to fall as you hastily wipe them away, refusing to let him see you cry.  
  
“What?” He questions in pure disbelief. He stands suddenly and thunders over to you, loud footsteps resounding throughout the room. “Never! It was a mistake. It meant nothing.”  
  
Quickly turning away, you release a large exhale imagining Sif round with his child. Imagining her having what you haven’t been blessed with.  
  
His hands land on your shoulders as he tugs you into his chest. “No.” You fight against his broad muscles and out of his clutches.  
  
“Get out.”  You snarl and open the door in one large swing.  
  
He stares at you, dumbfounded by the cutting sharpness in your voice. You’ve never actually spoken to him like this before. Violent. 

He nods then, his lips pulling into a grave frown. “I’ll give you time,” he concedes and takes a step forward. Thor leans down to kiss you, either from habit or hope, but you turn your cheek, refusing to give in to him. With a heavy sigh, he moves past you and out the door, sending one last forlorn look your way.  
  
You slam the door as soon as he steps through the threshold and fall against the hardwood.  
  
You take three deep breaths counting down the exhales. It takes all of your resolve to not crumble to your knees. Instead, you pace to your private dining table and pour a generous cup of wine, barely giving yourself a second's hesitation before you chug it. You fight back a choke and ignore the innate response to spit it out. The sole reaction you’ll allow: fill another glass and down it just as quickly.  
  
And another.  
  
And another.  
  
To be honest, four drinks in and you still feel the gnawing pain of his betrayal.  
  
Before you realize it, the pitcher is empty. But you still feel it. The pain.

You maneuver to your dressing room and take a seat at a large, wooden vanity, looking in the mirror. Your eyes caress the reflection staring back at you: your skin. Your hair. Your lips. Your eyes. You could use a release.  
  
Maybe you should cry, let it out in order to hold it in tomorrow.  
  
No.  
  
You don’t want that. You want an escape, a change, something different and something foreign. Something you’ve never had, but will fulfill you for when you have to see _her_ in public and keep a pleasant, cordial conversation. In reality, all you want to do is rip her apart. Belittle her to the size she reduced you too. Tear the thing she loves most from this world like she tore him. Thor was good and pure and now, now he is spoiled.

No.  
  
You can’t lose someone who doesn’t want to leave.  
  
There’s no way to make him feel it like you do. No way to rip his beating heart from his chest, to drown his emotional security and let him live as a shell without something- anyone- to turn to.  
  
You want to make him burn. But you can’t.

Can you?  
  
Instead of thinking on revenge any further, you dig through your vanity pulling the pieces of him and throwing them away. Mementos, jewelry, excessive finery. An engagement wristlet, a wedding gift, a promise ring.  
  
By the time you sift through, only one remnant remains: a sea kidney necklace. you pick it up gently feeling the cool silver fall over your skin as you peer into the gem. It’s color is seafoam.  
  
Your heart slows as you look at it, numbing the pain that blazed your soul. It reminds you of simpler times, when affection came without a price and love could only bloom, not shatter you into thousands of pieces. The gem’s color looks like his eyes. Mischievous blue muddled with green. 

You bring the jewel to your lips, feeling the cool rock across your lips. It’s what you always imagined his skin would feel like: cold and firm.

You remember your adolescence, when you were sure you’d be his before the Nine, not his brother‘s. When he’d be yours. The pain of this nostalgic memory nearly hurts more than Thor’s betrayal. Nearly. Of course that’s wrong. You couldn’t know how your life would have turned out if you married Loki. A God of Chaos. And the truth is simple: an agent of chaos can’t love anything but chaos.

If only there is a way to find out - to know - what your life would be like with him.

You stand from the vanity and clasp the necklace around the column of your neck. It glistens against your skin. But it feels wrong with your red gown, a clash of colors. So, you unlace the front of your gown and allow the scarlet fabric to pool in a mass at your feet, watching the amulet dance in the light. You remove your undergarments, bending and throwing the offensive cloth away, before standing to judge yourself.

The sight of your nudity gives yourself a clear picture. Your skin contains the bones, the muscles, and emotions. You run your fingers over your stomach, tracing intricate patterns on your sensitive flesh.  Perhaps you have drank too much.

Shaking your head, you look at the empty carreffe on your vanity table. If you drank that much, then you are drunk. And if you are drunk, then you have an excuse to act.

No.

It is wrong. It’s terrible of you to even suggest. Right?

 You drop your hands from your skin and pull a hanging silk robe over your body, covering yourself. You touch the dangling necklace, press it between your fingers. That’s when you think of Thor, of Sif, of their bodies intertwined in a heated embrace of slick skin. You imagined him pinning her to the bed with his hips and her hands tangled into his blonde tresses.

 It’s odd that the tears don’t even fall when your resolve takes place.

 You leave the room, slightly drunk, slightly sad, and extremely determined. Suppose he is to take you, how would it be? Would it be exactly like his brother? No. You would despise that.

You hurry down the halls, robe flurrying behind you with each quick step. When you finally reach his door, an imposing slab of wood, you pause.

Now that you’re standing there, head clouded with remnants of wine, you realize what you’re about to do and with whom. A self-respecting high road has faded to the background, you refuse to be the better person. Refuse to back down.

Fist meets wood.

It’s a loud knock, so sure of itself.

And you wait.

One moment.

Two.

You knock again.

You wait again.

Then, your stomach drops as you realize he’s not there. A chilling sense of sobriety washes over you.

Why are you here?

Regardless of Thor, you are better than this. Stronger.

Just as you spin around and begin to head back to your chambers, the door creaks open.

A thick, deep voice says your name as a question, shocked and confused by your presence.

You slowly swivel back around and see Loki.

His seawater eyes sweep over your form from head to toe, surprise etched in them. “What are you doing here?” You take him in: rumpled raven hair, pursed lips, half lidded eyes, naked chest. You open your mouth, but words catch in your throat. He’s beautiful like this. “Is it Thor?” He asks, his voice waking with urgency.

Your face crumbles at mention of his name, taking every ounce of strength to swallow your tears. You are sure Loki sees it. “Can I come in?”

His eyebrows furrow as he looks up and down the hallway before opening the door to let you pass.

As you enter, green and gold slap you in the face. As your eyes scan the sitting room, you realize it’s tidier than you imagined it’d be. Quite different. Manically tidy and organized, the room lights a warmth in your chest. Long walls of books, a massive hearth, and plush carpeting near it. He coughs as he maneuvers around you effectively cutting off your prying eyes. He walks to a small table in the far corner, reaching for a towering careff to pour two glasses.

“Wine,” he says more than asks as he hands it to you.

You stare at the maroon liquid in your cup, swirling it around as your stomach churns from anxiety, fear, and even disgust. What are you doing here? Loki says your name and a tear slips from your eyes. You swat it away angrily and mumble, “He slept with Sif.” With that simple sentence you bring the goblet to your lips and take three long pulls to empty the cup.

“What?” He asks, amusement stunning his features, waiting for you to elaborate.

“Thor,” you explain louder, making his smirk drop. “He slept with Sif.” Loki takes the glass from your hand and discards it on a table.

His hand grasps your chin, and tilts your head up to look you dead in the eye. His eyes peer deeply into your own, racing back and forth following yours. He frowns, eyebrows knit across his forehead, utterly confused by the sadness there. “Is that all?”

Your jaw drops and your chest constricts. “I’m his wife,” you claim.

“So?” You try to pull your chin from Loki’s hands as your heart falls with your expression, but Loki’s grasp tightens, forcing you to look at him. “Did you actually expect fidelity for thousands of years? Thor has been in love with Sif far before you were betrothed. Before his name was yours. But his loyalty had him marry you. The fact that it took him this long is truly magnificent.”

“I’m his wife,” you repeat with growing anger. “He vowed-”

“Did I miss your binding ceremony?” Your mouth snaps shut. “As I thought.”

His voice is liquid sarcasm. Dry and shocking. It makes you recoil and successfully pull yourself from his grasp. You turn your back to him, hunching over in a state of disarrayed despair. Perhaps if you made yourself smaller you could disappear. Vanish.

“You’re cruel,” you whisper in shock, keeping your eyes trained on the wooden door.

“No, cruelty is standing here and telling you it was a mistake. That it would not happen again. That you are his one true love that will light his path for eternity.”

A broken, choked sob is your response recalling Thor’s promise.

_It will never happen again._

Your cry rips from your throat and resounds against the walls, echoing in a otherwise silent room. Loki’s silence only makes you shudder. It’s judgemental and harsh, like his words. It’s a weapon that hurts more than a fist. Your fingers pull on the necklace around your throat, tightening around the cold gem. His bitterness is unrecognizable. It coils inside of you, ready to strike back at him.

You remember a time when he his love was languid and fluid. When he lay amongst dewy grass, spewing romantic ideology with a cynic pretense. When he gave you a necklace in shyness.

“Is that really what you think?” You finally ask in disbelief, spinning to look at him with your fingers still wound around the necklace. His gaze, dark and endless, hone in on the jewels, before snapping back to yours.

His mouth closes, eyes peering down at you with authority. “Why are you here, sister?”

Your fingers drop from the necklace and hang loosely at your sides. A lonely, awkward feeling blooms, and so you cross your arms hoping to protect you from the looming humiliation.

“To be comforted by my brother.”

Loki’s eyes grow wide, shock dancing through them before he checks himself to a cool mask of indifference. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong person.”

“Why? Because monogamous love is idealistic and childish?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

You lick your lips, staying rooted in place. “That doesn’t change what I want.”

“You’re hurting and looking for revenge.”  

“Yes.”

He purses his lips and looks like he is about to turn away until his eyes betray him by falling to your chest for a brief second. “I can’t help you.”

“I’m not looking for love. I just want to be wanted.” Your fingers drop to the plunging neck of the fine robe, toying with the material. You’re being ridiculous, you know it. Acting like a harlot, cornering the Prince in his room with the ruse of pain. But it’s not a ruse. It’s not. Your chest still burns, your heart is torn and bleeds a black bitterness that can’t be calmed with a few deep breaths.

But you‘ll use the liquor as the excuse. Not the heartbreak. That’s too personal. Consequence and integrity be damned.

“Then you shouldn’t have married Thor.”

“I didn’t want to.”

Loki laughs, his dark chuckle echoing against the stone. Then he takes four fluid, long strides to the door. When you turn, he pulls it open in a swift motion and folds his hand over the edge of the door. He nods to it, gesturing for your exit. “Surely, you didn’t think that would actually work.”

Desperation clings in your chest. “Tell me you don’t want me, then. That you’ve never wanted me. That you’ve never dreamt of taking me, even if it was just to get back at him. To take something that was only meant to be his.”

When he doesn’t answer, you bite your lip. Loki stares at you placidly. Bored even. His pale eyelids take heavy, long blinks. His lips remain relaxed and crisp.

Kissable lips.

Regret surges in your chest. What have you done?

You take slow steps, making sure to gather any remaining courage and dignity and swell it around you. Nerves wrack your being when you’re three feet from him, ready to give up. But when you’re closer, you can see he is not as calm as he’d lead you to believe. Years of seeing him, spending time with him, longing for him, have made you able to discern his body language. His fingers are tense, white knuckles from grasping the door so hard. His shoulders are stiff, rigid. Thin, hard lines carve around his lips. You fight back a smile, a crazed feeling inside of you.

So you pause, watching his fingers flex, itching to splinter the wood.

Your fingers fall to the tie at your waist, toying with the knot that is keeping you modest. Loki’s gaze darts down and watches as you slowly pull the loops loose. Smoothly, you untie it and with a small roll of your shoulders, your robe falls in a heap on the floor.

Loki’s eyes fall with your robe, studying the way the silver silk rests against the stone. Then his eyes leave a scorching trail up your body, studying your skin like a map. And as his eyes rove over the curve of your hips, the valley of your breasts, to your eyes, you can practically feel the lust surging through you, zipping an electric need to your core.

“You must be truly desperate to come to me.” He says, likely intending to insult your depravity, and yet his words almost seem harrowing, sad. Like he can’t believe you are here. Like it’s shocking you’d want him. With your gazes locked, you can see every emotion flicker through his, a mix of blue and green, caution and desire, scrutiny and faith.

You will away your bodily insecurities and instead stalk forward, arms hanging at your side with a false sense of bravado. Then, your hand reaches out and covers his on the door, peeling his fingers back one by one. His eyes are laced with trepidation and animalistic want, widening when you shut the door with a crisp, sure movement.

You reach forward with a steady palm, letting the alcohol blaze through you.  When your hand presses against his naked chest, you can feel his heartbeat thundering. It matches yours. Trying to escape the confines of your ribs and float away where it can’t be hurt.

You stare up at him with wide, doe eyes, waiting for him to say something. Instead, his appearance changes.

With a growl, he pins you to the door. The cool wood sends a shiver down your spine as Loki’s expression turns from caution to something dangerous. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand tall.

His right hand slams to the wall next to your head, eyes turning to a terrifying shade of anger.

“Loki…” you say carefully, as if approaching a feral creature rather than a Prince of Asgard.

 

* * *

Hope you enjoyed.

Chapter 2 will be coming soon. 

Come annoy me on my Tumblr: [MichelleLeahhh](http://michelleleahhh.tumblr.com)


	2. my love had been frozen deep blue, but you painted me golden

_ Thank you for all of the support.  _

_ Moodboard Loki:  _

_ _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_ His right hand slams to the wall next to your head, eyes turning to a terrifying shade of anger.  _

 

_ “Loki…” you say carefully, as if approaching a feral creature rather than a Prince of Asgard.  _

 

“Is this what  _ you _ want?” He snarls, his lips slowly fading from pink to azure. His chest presses against yours, his skin is so cold it makes your nipples stand on edge, desperate for attention. You lean your head back to keep your gazes locked, and that’s when his skin slowly turns. Pale, porcelain features become blue, raised markings scamper across his face, eyes bloody. You can feel your jaw drop, your eyes widen. Of course, everyone  _ knew _ that Loki was Jotun, after it was revealed centuries ago, but to see it in front of you. To see his Asgardian glamour drop. Well, that was something else all together. 

 

He chuckles, leaning forward, his nose burrowing into the crook of your neck. The air has turned so cold that when you release a stuttering breath, you can see a white puff litter the air. Loki inhales deeply and leans the length of his body against yours. His hardening member pokes into your belly. On the edge of your mind, you can feel a delicious sensation filling your being and pooling in your core. 

 

His lips dip to your skin, “I can smell your fear.” His mouth is so cold it shocks you, stills you. Loki pulls back, lips spreading into a ferocious smile, “Is this what you wanted,  _ sister _ ?” Your eyes scan his face, cerulean, feral, but it’s still him. The red eyes can’t hide Loki. It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. From the corner of your eye you see his hand next to your head begin to form a fist. His voice raises with hatred, “A dalliance with a monst-”

 

Without thinking your hand shoots forward, burrowing into his black hair and pulling his face down to yours. Your lips clumsily silence him as he leans over you. His mouth is still even as yours continue to move, pry. But when your tongue slithers against his lip, laving, he emits an entirely masculine sound from in his chest. The hand next to your head threads through your hair, pulling on the strands to tilt your head further back. His lips bite yours, pulling your tongue into his icy mouth. Your control falters as he begins to expertly command you. Without words. All he needs is his tongue, his lips, his touch. And you’re submissive. Then his teeth bear down, scraping against your tongue. It’s a marvelous sense of pain. 

 

You pull your lips away with a groan and look in his eyes. His tongue licks his lips, as if keeping the taste on his pallet, but his eyes are mirthful. 

 

“I want  _ you _ ,” you finally answer his earlier question, watching his eyes slightly shine with shock, before recovering with a cool mask of indifference.

 

“I suppose you won’t object to being taken like this, then. In  this repellent form.” You know that he means it as an insult. And yet, instead of speaking, you simply hike your leg over his hip. It’s not like he’d believe you either way. 

 

He inhales sharply as he looks down your body, your breasts heaving with every breath, the glistening juncture of your thighs as they press against his leather pants. You peek down too, his blue chest painting a vivid picture against the canvas of yours. Loki’s free hand slithers down your body. His fingers dance along the side of your breasts down your ribcage until his hand clasps your thigh and pulls it higher, opening you to him. He presses his lower body against yours, precisely where you need it. Your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head. 

 

“You’re positively  _ dripping _ ,” he drawels into your ear, then nips your earlobe. “I can feel the heat of you through my pants.” His lips nibble on the skin of your neck biting, sucking, kissing. Your hips begin to move against his, trying to release the desperation building in your core. 

 

Your hand drops between your bodies, ignoring your slickness and instead begin to unfasten his breeches. 

 

He pulls back and tsks, gathering your wrists in one hand and pulls them up. “You came to me, pet. We’ll proceed however I want.” You lick your lips and do the only thing you can think of: you nod. “Good girl.” 

 

He pulls your hands above your head making your back arch closer against him. He smirks and leaves your hands there, as he bends down to take one of your nipples into his mouth. The frigid temperature of his tongue makes you nearly shriek from surprise. And as he licks and sucks and bites, his other hand trails down to your other breast kneading it in his hands. His fingers pluck your nipple, playing with it. Expertly. He suckles the bud, making your hands drop to his hair, cradling his scalp and keeping him close as your hips begin to thrust against him again. Oh, how you want him inside you. You imagine him taking you like this, against the door, bouncing. 

 

You lick your lips, and just when your hips begin to find the perfect place to rub against, a place that makes you see stars, Loki growls and leans up. He pulls your hands over your head as he glowers over you. The red in his eyes sends your blood pulsing, or maybe that is just the desire. But his grasp is tight, almost painful. And you’re ashamed to find that it feels good. 

 

You whimper as he lets your leg drop. You can feel a slickness trickle down your inner thighs. And when you chance a glance down you see the mark you left on his pants, smothered all over him wantonly. You don’t know what’s happened to you, the wine, the desire, him. But it manifests inside you, making you move your legs to apply some type of pressure. 

 

Loki peers down at you as you do so, studying your movements unceremoniously. With a chuckle he keeps you pinned and watches you struggle. “Such a little minx, aren’t you?” Then suddenly you feel a slithering cool restraint against your wrist, and when you look up, you see your wrists shackled above your head by a serpent. A slight panic trickles through you, having never been bound like this, but Loki just smiles at you, his azure hands trailing back to play with your breasts. “I can’t wait to ruin you.” 

 

Then he trails kisses down your neck, over your chest and down your belly, coming to a kneel in front of you. 

 

“Loki?” You ask, the fear evident in your voice. “What are you doing?” 

 

He piques an eyebrow in your direction, leaving a cold, open mouth kiss on your lower belly. “What does it look like I’m doing?” Then he fatly licks your skin as if tasting it and pulls a leg over his shoulder. 

 

His hand dances up the inside of your thigh as he bites your thick skin there so hard it likely leaves a mark. “Loki, I’m serious.” You struggle to sound authoritative as the pleasure spikes through you. Surely, he’s not going to watch closely as his fingers... prepare you. Surely, you are wet enough. “Loki!”

 

His mouth pulls back from your leg to snap his gaze to yours, eyebrows furrowed and bunching his markings across his forehead.  “Has he never…” 

 

You shake your head, “He’s used his hands, but I’m rea-”

 

“And his tongue?” Loki immediately asks, stare heated.

 

You purse your lips, “His tongue, why would he…” you trail off as Loki curses, letting his lined forehead rest against your mound. 

 

He mumbles something against you that you can’t quite make out. 

 

Finally he picks his head up to glance at your confused stare with a ferocious, mischievous look of his own. “You’ll see why he  _ should _ .” He maneuvers your leg so it is pressed to the side against the door, bearing you to him. You don’t even have time to blush. 

 

His head leans forward, his cool breath sending shivers over your feminine slit. And when you  _ think _ you understand what he’s about to do, his tongue peeks out and licks a steady pathway from entrance to engorged clit. The frigid saliva makes your body jerk. “ _ Ohhh,” _ you pant when his tongue circles the apex of your thighs. He chuckles, the vibrations sending pleasure from limb to limb. His tongue darts back and forth making a wet noise that should make you sick, but instead makes your hips move against him. Then you feel another summoned snake trap your leg as his hand drops play with your entrance. Maneuvering so easily that he doesn’t even take a break from his… southern activities.

 

You pant and sigh, and when his lips close over the bud, sucking it between his teeth, you release a squeal. You pant out his name when he releases your clit, face burrowing between your lips and dipping into your entrance as his fingers spread you open for him. As you watch him, you pull on the restraints, literally dying to put your hands in his hair, not knowing whether you want to pull him closer or push him far away. It’s incredible, sinful, and embarrassing. Your mouth drops open as you pant, arching your back and your breasts bouncing with your heaving breaths. Your knees nearly buckle. 

 

He looks up at you and keeps his mouth at your entrance.  It makes you release a groan. Seeing his blue skin against yours, it should make you disturbed, instead it makes you even wetter. He finally pulls back, his breath panting against your entrance as a sole finger begins to run up and down your slit. 

 

And as he sinks one cool digit in, you groan. “You taste magnificent.” He growls, against you, thrusting his finger in a languid motion that makes you only want more. “Like fruit and honey. Sweet.” Then, he adds a second finger, curling them inside you, making you groan. “I could live off it.”

 

With that sentiment, his tongue darts back out, licking your juices and circling your clit. Your head slams against the wall, pulling against the snake holding you. The tension builds as his fingers begin to thrust more and more. Faster and faster. His tongue plays with your clit, his groans quiver against you. You think he might actually devour you. “Loki… I am...” 

 

“Yes,” he mumbles. 

 

And when he bites down, the pleasure peaks making you shout, his fingers moving quicker, his tongue licking you. Your hips jut forward in very unlady-like motions, riding his fade as your orgasm overtakes you. His tongue leaves your clit to suck your entrance, his fingers move to tightly circle your bud. From far away, you hear a rush of liquid as you see your come trailing down his chin. That couldn’t be normal, it had to be vile. It couldn’t taste good. And yet his guttural moans, animalistic and hungry, do not sound displeased. 

 

And you continue to ride him as your body returns to normal, sporadic shocks making you whimper. 

 

Then he removes his lips, carefully moving your leg as the restraint disappears in a puff of smoke. He kisses up your body, his fingers pulling out of you. When he finally stands he’s so close to you, you’re nearly cross eyed to look at him. Dazed. You think you see stars. 

 

“I didn’t know…” you trail off, when you see his feral look.

 

And he’s licking his lips, your arousal glistening from his chin. His fingers smooth over your lips, painting them with your essence. 

 

“Open,” he commands, letting his fingers press against your plush lips. You have no choice but to obey in your catatonic state. And when his fingers enter, when he demands that you  _ suck _ , you wrap your fingers around his long digits, cleaning them for him. It  _ is  _ sweet.

 

He moans, resting his forehead against yours, and removes his fingers from your mouth. Leaning forward, he kisses you. Lips biting and owning you. 

 

Loki’s chilly hands grasp your ribs, caging you and drawing small designs on your skin when he finally leans down to pick up both your legs. 

 

He pulls back as you wrap your legs around him, crossing your ankles. This position puts a strain on your wrist, but he’s taking the brunt of your weight. And, as if sensing your thoughts the snake holding your arms in place disappears and your limbs fall heavily to his shoulders, grasping him. 

 

“If we don’t stop now, I won’t be able to.” 

 

To anyone else, this would be out of character. Not the Loki they’re familiar with. But you,  _ you _ know this Loki. The vulnerable God of Mischief, who uses spite and sarcasm to liquidate his own dread, is a gentleman. Kind. Honest. He’d never take advantage. 

 

You know this side of him. 

 

So you cross your arms around his neck and peck his lips. Then, you dig your nails in his back making him almost mewl. You smirk, “Don’t you dare stop.” 

 

He chuckles and begins walking towards his bedchambers. You dip your head to his neck, taking time to repay what he did to you. Kissing, and licking the path of his markings. He tastes salty. Like sweat and something else, like snow.

 

When he unceremoniously drops you on the bed, you notice during the short walk he’s lost all clothing.

 

You take in his form. 

 

Sure it’s blue. But it’s more than that. Lean, sinewy muscle that cuts like a marble stone. Trim waste, slim yet defined chest. He’s so… different. 

 

He must know you’re comparing him because his stature instantly changes, rigid. His shoulders tense. Eyes guard. But as your scan dip lower you see his jutting member, hard and thick and long. But… the markings that are on his body are also on his cock. You know your husband is well endowed, his girth alone tears you apart. But this, is different. It’s an alien anatomy.

 

Long swirling rigid skin. The implications of what that could do are not lost on you. 

 

Without thinking, your hand lifts, a nail trailing along one of the markings and over his erection. He grunts when you make contact with his head and dip into the tiny slit there, swirling his pre-come on your fingertips. You raise your gaze, making sure your stares are locked when you lick him from your finger. He pulls your head forward for another short kiss, before thrusting you backwards by your neck. Not in the least bit gentle.

 

When you land on your back his hands reach for your ankles twisting you onto your stomach. 

 

“On your knees,” he grounds out in a husky tone. 

 

You do as directed and get on your four limbs. This, thankfully, is not new to you, though you can’t remember the last time you enjoyed this position.  _ Long  _ before you began trying to conceive. You swallow thickly as you look over your shoulder. Loki’s hands begin lazily pumping his erection before he gets on the bed behind you. 

 

He licks his lips, eyes on your ass as his hand moves to your cheeks, squeezing and parting them. He groans again when he looks at you in the eyes. “Delectable.” 

 

You don’t know why, but his praise lights your chest. You actually feel desired, rather than the pity he’s bestowing upon you. 

 

No, you force that away, longing to stay in this moment. 

 

“So wet. Just begging to be fucked.” He continues, pumping his erection. His fingers itch towards your entrance and thrust inside. “Ah, so hot as well.” 

 

His eyes don’t leave yours when he brings his fingers to his lips. He licks them sensually, making your core throb. “Ambrosia doesn’t taste this good.” 

 

You whine and without thinking bow your back, offering yourself to him even more. He chuckles darkly, and runs the head of his erection through your folds letting your slickness cover it. 

 

It’s so cold you whimper and Loki hisses. 

 

“Feels good, doesn’t it, pet?” You watch him over your shoulder as his eyes remain glued to your entrance. Without thinking, you rock back his cock passing over your clit. 

 

“Ah,” you cry as pleasure zips through you. Loki’s gape darts back to yours. 

 

“Do you want me to fuck you, pet?” 

 

You nod.

 

“Tell me,” he demands, pushing his hips forward as you continue to thrust back. 

 

“Yes,” you say. 

 

“No, ask me,” he challenges. The head of his cock passes over your clit. You groan. “Beg for it.” 

 

You should blush, you should be scandalized. Instead… “Please fuck me, Loki.”

 

He grins and lines his cock in your entrance. He teases the head at your entrance nearly entering an inch before pulling back. “ _ Really _ beg me this time.” 

 

Odious God of Mischief. Teasing you like this. 

 

You’ve never done this before, never spoken out like this. Never. “Please, Loki. I beg you. Please fuck me. I want you inside me, I want-” Just when you think you’ve lost everything, he pushes inside you in a sharp, strong thrust. 

 

Norns.

 

Both of your cries echo through the room as Loki buries himself to the hilt. You pant against the mattress, using your palms to hold you up. Loki’s hips pull back then surge forward again. The markings on him make your eyes roll to the back of your head. It’s delicious and before he’s been thrusting for even a minute you can feel the telltale signs of your orgasm hurtling through you. 

 

He keeps pressing against that spot inside you. The one that makes your vision blurry and fade to black. And the ridges on him, it adds a scraping sensation that has your walls fluttering. 

 

He continues to drive forward, the sounds of your coupling echoing in your ears. But that’s not all you hear. 

 

You hear words like: hot, and wet, and divine. It’s… you’re coming. 

 

You groan and hear Loki above you curse as he rides you through it, pressing on your shoulders as he drives you faster. Falling against the mattress, you pant, eyes closed as you hear the wet sounds of your sex. His skin slapping against yours.

 

Then, he pauses and pants, his large arms circle your waist and pull you so your back is against his chest. He bites your neck, thrusting up into you. 

 

“Loki.” You whimper, trying to match his thrusts, but he’s so swift, so precise in his movements, you’re already approaching another orgasm. “I can’t,” you shake your head. You lay your head against his shoulder, turning to face him, and his lips descend upon yours, licking them, biting them. It’s violent.  

 

You don’t know what you expected, but this is more than you could have dreamed for. 

 

He tears his lips from yours, both of your eyes locked. He puffs out his hips continue to drive into you, then his fingers reach for your breast, kneading and prodding. His teeth latch onto your ear as his breath grazes your shell. 

 

You’re on fire.

 

An icy, shivering fire. 

 

You groan as Loki’s hand squirms down your stomach and to your chest. He circles your clit, tormenting you. “Loki, no please.” You can’t, you’re delirious. Twice is more than enough. It is starting to hurt, and build into a blooming pleasure.

 

“Yes,” he argues. “You’ll come with me.” He says, his hips propelling faster. “I want to feel your sweet quim milking me, taking everything I have to give.”

 

You don’t know why, but you nod, your hips thrusting down against his. You’re just there, and the head of his cock continues to hit the spot, the ridges continue to press against you. His hand is on your clit, his mouth biting your neck. 

 

You throw your head back, actually screaming, bucking against him. Loki, pushes you back down and impales you faster.

 

Once, twice, three times. 

 

And he’s groaning above you, losing any sense of rhythm as he empties inside of you. 

 

When minutes pass, you continue to pant, and Loki rests on top of you. His cock softening inside you. The arm next to your bed fades to a creamy tone as he rolls off of you. 

 

You both lay there for a moment, realizing what just happened. What you did. 

 

The mutiny, the betrayal. Him for his brother, you for your husband.

 

You can’t find it within you to feel guilty though. 

 

So you turn over to face him and find his hands over his head. The Loki you know has returned and you wish he hadn’t. His Jotun form was something else. 

 

You say his name, and bring your hand to push back his black hair. He grasps your wrist, eye peeking over at you. You think he’s about to snap, but instead he brings the palm to his lips and leaves a soft kiss. 

 

“You should leave,” he grumbles out, dropping your arm to the side. “Before Thor starts looking for you.”

 

You nod, and instead burrow further into the mattress. Loki notices, but doesn’t say anything. Then again, he doesn’t turn to you either. Instead, he remains on his back looking at the ceiling above him, an arm behind his head and the other on his chest.

 

“Is that why they call you silver tongue?” 

 

That gets his attention. His face sharply pivots to you.

 

It’s very silent for a moment. Then, his lips pull into an honest, full-fledged, unguarded smile. And he laughs, a deep laugh that makes you giggle as well. 

 

When he sighs and quiets again, letting the moment pass, you still, holding back tears. It comes to you then, as the orgasmic bliss begins to fade with your drunkenness. “I didn’t know it could be like that.” 

 

Loki doesn’t answer and instead purses his lips. You nod, realizing that you may have ruined more than you gained. Revenge, after all, is a fickle foe that only leaves the gnawing whole inside you larger than before. 

 

And just when you’re about to move away, when you’re sure the dejection is evident on your face. 

 

Loki answers, “I didn’t either.” 

 

* * *

Thank you for all the kind support! 

I'm tempted to end it there, what do you guys think? Should we see how this evolves?

Come say hi on Tumblr:  [MichelleLeahhh](http://michelleleahhh.tumblr.com)


	3. darling, you turned my bed into a sacred oasis

Normally, I update every two weeks. But since GOT resumes in two Sundays, I may try to move updates to Fridays.

Hope that's okay with everyone! If not, here's a gif to get you in the mood: 

 

**Enjoy!**

 *Brief mentions of infertility in this chapter. This may trigger some people.

 

* * *

 

“Soup is excellent,” Frigga comments from the head of the table.  

 

You bring the silver spoon to your mouth and blow on the steaming broth. Without a moment of hesitation, your lips close over the creamy liquid. Earthy flavors lather the inside of your mouth with a final twinge of sweetness. It’s heavenly.

 

As your eyelids flutter close, you bring your hand to your mouth and stifle a moan. “It is,” you agree, bringing another spoonful to your lips.

 

A dribble of liquid trickles down the side of your mouth, so you lick your lips and pull a napkin up to dap it away. It makes you smile slightly when you look around the table, only to find Loki’s intense gaze on you.

 

Bright, mirthful eyes praising you from down the table, sucking on his thumb in an extremely wanton, teasing manner. It makes you choke on the soup.  

 

Thor’s hand smooths circles on your back, “Are you alright?” He asks from your left, reminding you of his presence and tearing your gaze away from his brother.

 

You nod, coughing into the napkin, shaking your husband’s blazing touch off of you. “I’m fine,” you choke out, hot all over.

 

“Perhaps a bit too much pepper.” Odin assesses. “Fill her goblet, son.”

 

You wave your hand and shake your head, not missing Loki’s mischievous smirk. “I’m fine.”

 

Still, Thor fills your cup, and puts it in your hand. You greedily suck down the cool drink. Because, you don’t know if your soaring temperatures are from the soup or from Loki’s gaze. Deep, murky eyes, watching you, peeling away your layers until you are raw and exposed.

 

You feel naked. Exceptionally, nude, writhing under bl-

 

No. You wipe that thought from your mind and instead focus on the soup. Lift, sip, swallow. And repeat. Everyone resumes their conversations, the family dining room filled with your close friends and relations.

 

Your husband engages his favorite platoon, the Warriors Three (minus the vamp Sif), with retellings of memorable, military moments. Frigga and Odin transpire in a way only older couples can: not speaking but sending sly, knowing looks at one another. And then there’s Loki, speaking to the eloquent, lovely Lady Vár. Both of their heads, one blonde as the sun the other dark as the night, close to each other in hushed conspiracy. His wide, carefree smile and a knowing glint in her eye.

 

The Goddess of Oath and God of Mischief.

 

They would make a complimentary match. One that would never dull. The thought surges through you, overwhelming your rationality. Its waters float with nausea, abhor, and guilt.

 

Because, then there’s you: stuck in the middle of the many conversations without any need for your input.

 

“I apologize,” you finally say after some time to the group of people. “I do not think the soup is agreeing with me.” Loki peers over at you, making you shiver. You need to be away from his gaze. “If you don’t mind, I will head back to my rooms.”

 

Thor puts his glass down, looking at you with concern creased in his blonde eyebrows.

 

“Should we take you to the healers?” He asks, reaching a hand out to touch the back of your neck, like trying to gauge your temperatures.

 

He’d feel a flush for sure, but not from sickness.

 

“No,” you shake your head immediately, shifting uncomfortably from his touch. “I believe it is just exhaustion.” You turn to Frigga, as if cohorts on a secret. “I spent the day transposing the elderflower bush. Some of the sap must have gotten onto my skin.” Elderflower, after all, was a potent aid in sleeping serums. Frigga would understand.

 

Frigga’s eyes shine in delight. “If that is the case. How did you even make it here?”

 

You smile graciously and bow your head before pushing away from the table.

 

“I will walk you,” Thor offers, standing from the table.

“No!” You nearly shout, taking a deep breath. “I mean, you should enjoy your dinner.”

 

Thor nods, his lips dipping into a frown, understanding what you _aren’t saying_.

 

You need to be alone.

 

You smile, exit the room, and walk to your chambers, lost in thought. It’s one of those moments that you are thinking so hard, that the world becomes a simple blur.

 

All greys, and shadows, as you wander.

 

You have regrets, you’d be foolish not to. Deep sexual satisfaction could not ease the guilt that seared inside of you. This is your fault: you went to Loki’s room. You took off your robe. You pulled his lips to yours. You have no reason to feel jealous or like you have a claim to him.

 

And yet you do.

 

It was sin masked as Valhalla. And you are ashamed.

 

You stumble into your chambers solemnly, not feeling quite much of anything but despondence.

 

Isn’t that sad?

 

“What took you so long?”

 

You come up short, startled. Pausing in the entrance of your chambers with the door hanging open, you are shocked at what you see.

 

Loki is lounging in your drawing room, casually, like these are his rooms.

 

Perhaps in the past few weeks they _have_  become an extension of his rooms.

 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, slamming the door quickly behind you. “How did you get here so fast?”

 

He studies his fingernails for a moment, before leveling you with a look. “The soup was just unagreeable, don’t you think?”

 

You pin him with a glare. “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Why not?” He asks with a smirk. “Is it only you who can come to me? Am I not permitted to seek your comfort?”

 

“What if he comes to check on me?”

 

Loki stands then, smoothing out any wrinkles on his tunic. As if the thought was just pure ludicrous. “My brother will be preoccupied for the next few hours.”

 

You can’t help the suspicion that weaves through you. “What did you do?”

 

“Skepticism does not become you,” he says, taking measured strides. His arms wrap around your waist, his short nails scratching the fabric of your dress. He leans forward his breath hotly passing over the shell of your ear. It’s a lulling sensation that forces your eyelids to flutter close. Your body responds to him so readily, like nothing you have experienced before.

 

And you fight against it, peek at him. You raise one eyebrow, testing him without words.

 

He sighs backing you up so you’re pressed against the door, his body pressed against yours. “I may have put something in his drink.”

 

“What kind of _thing_?”

 

“It would seem like the soup was… not agreeable to anyone at dinner.”

 

You laugh absurdly, pushing him off of you. “You poisoned my husband.”

 

“It will add credibility to our story.”

 

“It was _my_  story,” you begin, “Not ours.”

 

Loki bounces his head from side to side, knowing that you are, likely, right. “Well, regardless. Now mother will never serve that dreadful dish again.”

 

“I liked it!” You claim, slapping his chest. “It was lovely.”

 

He catches your wrist, giving you one, heated glance. “If that is the case, why didn’t you finish it.” His fingers begin to rub a pattern on your captured skin. It sends your nerve endings on fire.

 

“Because…” you trail off, eyelids growing heavy with his comforting grasp.

 

“Did something catch your attention?”

 

You swallow thickly, remembering the emotions in his eyes. Feral, wanton, sexy. It lit you up and burnt you alive. You couldn’t sit there, not with his attention on another woman. It made you see emerald, jaded green, everywhere

 

“We need to stop this,” you whisper and take a step around him, walking to the bar just to the side of the fireplace, propped against a golden wall. You pour two glasses of an amber colored liquid. Something stronger than the mead served at dinner.

 

Loki remains where you left him, buried underneath the weight of what you said.

 

“Are we playing this game again?”

 

You throw back the glass, swallowing the liquid steadily, and not paying attention to him as he walks slowly to where you are. One of his arm reaches out, taking the drink into his long grasp. His fingers cusp over the glass and brings it to his lips. You can hear him swallowing behind you, and it is, Gods forgive you, incredibly seductive. Such loud, slurping sounds that remind you of his face buried between your thighs. So loud. Everything is heightened in his presence.

 

“Should I leave?” He asks into your ear as he places the cup back on the table in front of you.

 

His dexterous fingers begin collecting your skirt in his hands. He trails the gown slowly up your legs, revealing your thighs inch by inch. You hold back a moan when his cool pinky traces along your skin. He manages to get the fabric pinned around your waist, leaving your lower half exposed to the air. You groan when he pushes his body flush against yours, no air between you.

 

Your hand drops to the table, using it to anchor you, holding yourself up. His chin rests against your shoulder, nose turned to trail over your chin, inhaling.

 

“Should I?”

 

You don’t respond and instead lick your lips, trying to remember why you shouldn't do this.

 

Instead, you buck your hips back against his, grinding onto him.

 

He tsks and pulls back slightly, “Say it.”

 

You shake your head turning your cheek so your lips are a breath away. One of you will admit it first, but it will not be you. So, instead, your tongue darts out, licking his lips, tasting the soup on them. He groans, his pink lips leaning forward before snapping back.

 

Your hand climbs down to his pants, unlacing the thatch to them.

 

“ _Say it_.” He demands, seriously.

 

“No.” You say, slithering your hand beneath the pants, finding his sex already hard and heavy.

 

Loki wrenches your hands from his pants and turns you in a nearly violent manner. Like you are a plaything orchestrated by his strings.

 

He gathers you in his arms and sits you on the bar, the glasses clattering, shattering on the ground when he pushes your skirts up and steps between your spread legs. “It appears you forgot your undergarments.”

 

You lick your lips, “Silly me, must have been the-” you gasp when he rips his bodice of your dress down the middle. “The eld-”

 

He blinks slowly, his pale, smooth skin glowing in the room. “Must have been what?” His eyes trapped to your bare chest, grasping one breast into his hand, feeling the weight of it in his grasp. He pulls on your nipple, tweaking it until you groan.

 

“This -” You start, biting your lip. “Is manipulation,” you manage to get out between clenched teeth.

 

“Is it?” He asks, bending down to press his lips against the juncture of your neck. His teeth nibble on your skin pulling the same way his fingers pulling on your hardened peak.

 

You don’t answer, and instead rock your head back. Your hips begin to rut forward, and you clench your thighs around his form. If he would just sway one inch closer you could rub your clit against him. And that, that would feel _so_ good you realize.

 

“Hmm,” he says finally, pulling back and removing his hands. “I wouldn’t want to manipulate the Crowned Princess.”

 

Your eyes shoot open at that. Loki’s smile is devious. “Loki,” you warn when he steps back again.

 

“Well,” he begins, retying his tented pants. “I should head back to my rooms, I wouldn’t want to put you in a precarious situation. Unless,” he pauses, cocking his head to the side. Mischief reigns in his eyes. “Unless you would like me to stay.”

 

You bite your cheek and clench your jaw, looking to your left, ignoring the cold air that is wafting over your nearly nude body. Ignoring the pulsing between your legs.

 

It is wrong. You remind yourself.

 

It was meant to be _one_  time. One time to get back at Thor for sleeping with Sif.

 

But, it has been many times since the first time.

 

You’ve made your point, he’s made his.

 

You’ve tussed your bed, cleaned it up, put your anger and betrayal to under clean sheets. And your husband has done everything to prove that he’s been faithful. Even removing Sif from the family dinners, from the feasts, from your sight all together.

 

You _should_ tell Loki to leave.

 

Instead you spread your legs wider, giving him a clear picture of your wet cunt.

 

His eyes darken to near black as he licks his lips, staring at the glistening slit. “I would like you to stay,” you say, as a flush runs through you.

 

“Spread your lips for me.” He demands, his voice taking on a deep grit.

 

You swallow thickly, your fingers dancing between your legs. They listen to him. And your legs, with their own mind, perches your foot on the edge of the bar giving Loki an even better vantage point.

 

Your fingers delve in, realizing for the first time how _wet_  you are. There’s nearly a puddle gathering on the table below you. “Ugh,” you grunt out, just spreading yourself wide.

 

“Good girl,” he praises, “Now sink one finger inside. Do not touch your clit.”

 

You lick your lips, your eyes glued to the tenting in his pants, and his stare pinned to the fingers between your thighs.

 

You do as he says, one slim finger entering, not doing anything to ebb the fire building inside you. It doesn’t even particularly feel good. Just like a plug in a gushing hole.

 

“Keep it there, do not remove it.” He orders, pulling the laces from his pants. “Does it feel good?”

 

Your eyes trail up his body, looking at him and shake your head.

 

“Use your words, pet.”

 

“No.”

 

Loki grins, his lips pulling back deviously. “Poor, baby.” His voice is _anything_ but contrite. “Why not?”

 

You bite your lip and furrow your eyebrows. “Not enough.”

 

He smirks. He pushes his pants down just slightly, maneuvering his sex out of his pants. Your pussy immediately clamps on your finger, making your chest heave. It’s so similar and different from his other form.

 

“Circle your clit with your other finger. Just once” You do as he says, sighing, drawing out the single, permitted pass.

 

He takes a step closer, his hand tugging on his member. Its head is red and angry, weeping for you.

 

“Tell me, pet, do you deserve my cock?”

 

You knit your eyebrows across your forehead, knowing it is a trap.

 

You’ve played this game before.

 

He finally manages to worm his way between your thighs again, spreading them, letting his hardness rest against your lap. His hand guides your finger out, before pressing it back in, careful to not touch your body. He builds a rhythm, alighting your body on fire. You groan, because there’s a pressure building, but it’s not enough. So, with a mind of their own, your hips begin to follow your fingers, longing for his. It’s been too long since he touched you.

 

A whole five minutes, your mind reminds you.

 

You bite your lip, nibbling.

 

“No,” you finally say. “But I want it.”

 

He leans forward, one of his fingers entering your channel with yours. You groan, feeling so much better than before. He leans forward and bites the underside of your chin.

 

“What will you do for it?”

 

You open your eyes, watching his. You try to hold back the truth, but he curls his digit inside you, pressing on that spot making you spasm forward. “Anything,” you grunt out.

 

He smirks then and leans forward kissing your lips once.

 

“I will remember that for next time,” he begins wrenching your digits from between your legs and bringing it to his lips. He licks your finger sensually, laving your juices from both of yours and his fingers, keeping your eyes locked when he draws yours into his mouth. His teeth scrapes your skin when he hollows out his cheeks and sucks. Then, with force, he removes your finger and puts your hand on his chest. “Now, I’m going to fuck you.”

 

You nod, just in time for him to slowly enter you, stretching your walls. You reach around his chest and begin to lift his shirt. Longing to feel his skin, you let your hands grasp his back, digging his nails into the skin when he buried inside you to the hilt.

 

“Is that better?” He asks, peering down at you through half lidded eyes. You nod, lifting his shirt. As if reading your mind, he pulls the tunic over and discards it on the ground over the broken glass. “How do you want it?” He leans forward, biting your lip. “Hard?” He asks, impaling you in a quick, jutting movements. It shoves a breath from your lungs, choking. “Or slow?” He pulls out, before delicately, then intimately drives back into you.

 

“However, you want it.” You answer softly, making him smile.

 

“Good. It’ll be fast then, and hard.”

 

Your heart beat hammers when his hips begin a punishing rhythm, like he is getting back at you. Like you did something wrong for even suggesting he leave. You groan and claw into his back, your hips moving with his, ungracefully.

 

“Do you like it?” He asks, “Do you like having my cock buried inside you?”

 

You groan, screwing your eyes tightly. You nod, dropping your head to his shoulder, biting his skin.

 

“Always so responsive.” Loki’s hands pull both of your legs, hiking them and bending them to rest against his chest. It makes you impossibly tighter, and it burns, seers your skin. “Norns, you are simply divine. Made for me.” He pistons faster, your sex making lewd sound through the room. But he’s so careful, careful to not press against your clit, or against the spot inside you. It’s like he’s just using you as a human glove. Your fall forward, pressing your lips into his chest

 

“Come,” you whisper against his collar bone. “I want to come,” you say. Your fingers crawl to his backside trying to draw his hips so they catch on your clit. But he’s so much stronger than you.

 

“Do you deserve it?”

 

You pull back, to look at him in his eyes, his jaw is open, his nostrils flaring.

 

“Please,” you beg. “Anything, please make me come.”

 

He pulls out completely taking a step back, and begins fisting his cock, like he’s going to finish himself off. “How? With my tongue, with my hands, with my cock?”

 

You know what you want, you want him back inside you, but you bite your lip, knowing the game you’re playing. The unwritten rule he started the third time you did this.

 

“With whatever pleases you.”

 

His smile intensifies, lecherously. “I will come inside you, then. Shoot my seed so deep, I’ll be inside you for weeks.”  

 

Your mouth falls open as your insides quake, shiver. It’s like a miniature orgasm just swept through you at the thought.

 

Then, Loki comes back and pushes on your shoulder so you are leaning against the wall. His spidery fingers close over each of your thighs, dig painfully into the flesh, and haul you to the edge of the bar. Helplessly, you let him move you. His touch is a calming, saturated sunset draped over your dreary evening.

 

A plea slithers through your lips, when you close your eyes. He leans over you, kissing you slowly as he enters in a soft, quieting movement. Rocking into your tight canal.

 

His hip bone digs into your clit when he’s fully seated inside you. He stands straight then and looks down at you, propped like a doll against the wall.

 

You open your eyes, the lights behind him making him look angelic and regal. His high cheekbones, licked with a fiery flush, puffing with effort. So, the God shifts back out, and moves just as slowly in.

 

It rips a groan from you, his name dripping out of you.

 

His nostrils flare when your hands thread into his dark tresses, twinging through them and jerking drawing his face down to yours for a sinful kiss.

 

You just want his lips.

 

Soft, pliant, and aggressive.

 

When your tongue enters his mouth, teasing his, he groans and moves faster. Deft fingers knead your breast, before caressing your skin, passing over your ribs, across your navel, stalling there. He digs into your skin, just feeling the skin below his fingertips. Like memorizing your flesh.

 

“Loki,” you groan when he finally twitches his fingers between your southern lips. He wrenches back, standing straight again. Using your hips as leverage to thrust swiftly.

 

He taps your clit, before catching it between his fingers, twisting it painfully.

 

And then he begins a pistoning, steady, jerking rhythm. Like dancing to a crescendo of music that swells just before its end. His breath comes out in harsh pants.

 

So, you pull yourself from the wall, circling your hands across his shoulder, trapping his hand between you, circling your clit.

 

“May I?” You ask hopefully, eyebrows scrunching with a building pleasure, your hips moving with his. You’re holding back, you realize. Waiting for his praise, his permission. He loves when you ask for it, like he is the King of your pleasure. Your submission, and request, sends him moving faster. Giving him his own type of delight when you ask for approval.

 

Seawater eyes narrow on your lips and he doesn’t say a word. He leans forward and nibbles on them, “You may.”

 

Your grin could blind him. It’s so wide, happy. You throw your head back, chasing the pleasure he’s thrusting into you, your hips grinding into him as your tight sex pulses. Throbs.

 

He curses then, lowly. Almost angrily. It makes another tremor pass through you when he fists your thighs in a tight grip

 

“So tight.” He mumbles against your lips. He trails breadcrumbs in the form of kisses to your neck. Biting into the flesh, he mumbles words that you can’t begin to understand. Curses. Chants. Possessive proverbs. He’s like an animal claiming you. “So wet for me.”

 

You nod, feeling his cock begin to swell with pleasure. “For you,” you agree. Then, you feel it, like he’s flooding the thoughts into you. Thick, hot ropes of his pleasure coats your walls, as he promised.

 

Marking you.

 

_His._

 

“Yours.”

 

You whimper the word when he finishes inside you.

 

The truth shivers down you, sobering you, but he doesn’t seem to notice it, caught up in the crook of your neck. His breath pants across your sweaty skin shaking in completion.

 

Moments later, he moves away from you. Loki conjures a cloth, delicately caring for you in a way that’s almost foreign. It’s something your husband hasn’t done since your first month in the marriage bed.

 

This is new, your mind whispers, trying to dampen the feelings swelling inside you. He’s doing this only because it’s new.

 

That’s it.

 

You smile tightly, taking the rag from him to clean yourself off, embarrassed. Trying to stave off the foolishness inflating inside you.

 

And, though you shouldn’t, you clean him off as well. His head hangs, watching as your hands softly swipes the textile against his softening member. He tilts his head, kissing your cheek as you finish. That feeling tries to sprout, like you’re a flower blooming under his sunlight.

 

“Don’t do that again,” he speaks in a groggy intimate manner.

 

You pick your gaze up and tease, “You’d rather stay dirty?”

 

He smirks, pulling the cloth from your hands and throws it behind you. With a wave of his hand your dress is repaired. Well not repaired, it’s actually something completely different. With a jade flash, you are dressed in a short, forest sleeping costume, fully covered. You roll your eyes at the color.

 

“Do not push me away again.” You bite your lips, when he continues, “This will not be ending anytime soon. There is _nothing_  in the realm that could stop it. ”

 

“Loki,” you begin carefully. “If we don’t stop now, it’ll spiral.”

 

He nods like the chaotic agent he is. “Is that a bad thing?”

 

A doomed feeling tremors up your spine. How are you to tell him no when he looks at you like that? So, you nod slowly, condemning yourself to continuing this mutiny.

 

“Beautiful,” he whispers and leans forward to kiss the crown of your head, his nose burrowing into your hair. “Then we must talk of protecting ourselves.”

 

He steps back, tucking himself back into his pants and picking up his shirt before turning back to face you.

 

You bite your lip as his defined muscles ripple, regretfully wanting him to stay nude. Thick bands of tendons slither under his skin. You realize you barely even explored his body during this bout.

 

Is this how he feels when he looks at you?

 

A desperate need to be touching at all times?

 

You ask, “Protecting ourselves?”

 

“If I continue to empty myself inside you, sooner or later everyone will find out.”

 

Oh. A child, he means to protect you from.

 

Your eyes fall shut then, in shame. He puts both of his arms on either sides of your legs. Leaning forward, he kisses you, groaning against your lips.  

 

“I always want to be touching you,” he whispers against them, his fingers fluttering over your skin. You smile sadly and he kisses you again as if to ward away sadness. “Always want to be inside you. When I saw him touching your back at dinner, all I wanted to do was push him away. I wanted to pick you up, throw you on the table, and fuck you right there. Show him how you drip for me, scream for me.” Shocked, you open your eyes and pull back to look at him.

 

His eyes are dark, head. “Imagine my surprise when you nearly pushed Thor. In front of everyone. Looking at me when you did.” He kisses under your chin and whispers, “It made me achingly hard.”

 

You swallow thickly, opening your eyes to look at him. He kisses you softly again, like a promise.

 

Then his fingers summon a glass vile between his fingers. “You’ll drink this after every coupling.”

 

Your mouth falls open with truth, “We don’t need that.”

 

He pulls back, a frown pulling his lips. “Didn’t we just go through this? This will not be ending.”

 

You shake your head, “I can’t…” You trail off, biting your lip and shame creeping through you. “Thor and I have been trying for decades. So…”

 

Loki’s face hangs close to yours in understanding, scrutinizing your tearing eyes, as if he is trying to decide the likelihood of your honesty.

 

As if you would lie about something like that.

 

“You don’t know that for sure,” he finally decides.

 

You shrug, “I went to the healers and they said it’s fundamentally impossible. That’s why,” You heave in a breath, desperately trying to _not_  cry. “Anyway, the night I told him… that’s the night he slept with _her_ ,” you spit.

 

Crimson decorates Loki’s expression, before stoicism is chases it away.

 

He grinds his teeth, his jaw flexing when he looks at the wall behind your head.

 

“Perfect, then.” He picks you up suddenly, hauling you over his shoulder.

 

“Loki,” you shriek, and he palms your ass, slapping it roughly as he enters your sleeping chambers.

 

“He’s an idiot,” Loki says, tossing you onto your bed. He removes his clothes with a simple hand movement, his member, already hard again, bouncing against his belly. “And I’m going to fuck him away. Until you have no memories of anyone in this bed but me.”

 

You look up at him, dazed, the tears fleeing from your system. He begins to crawl up the bed towards you. So, you hastily pull the silk chemise over your head.

 

“But first, we need to address your attempts to end this.” Naked, lying beneath him, he kisses up your legs, his mouth pausing at your entrance. “I think a punishment is in order.” He licks the seam of your lips. “Delicious, as always, pet.” He tears his eyes from your sopping entrance to give you an admonishing gaze. “You cannot come until I say so.” Then his lips thrust forward, latching onto your clit, making you cry out.

 

And just like that, he makes you forget about your conversation, your husband, and the impending doom that is sure to follow.

* * *

 **Thank you for every kudos and comment.** You've made me want to continue this. 

I've actually outlined the story with roughly 18 chapters. (+ nearly as many explicit scenes.)

 **So** , if there's one you'd love to see...

Come give us a shout here: [MichelleLeahhh](http://michelleleahhh.tumblr.com/ask), or leave a comment below. ;)

 


	4. people started talking, putting us through our paces

So happy you all are enjoying this story. 

Now, on to this hot mess of a story. 

 

* * *

 

 To say you and Loki are careful, would be laughable.

 

There isn’t a day that goes by where you aren’t together in some capacity. Hurried or slowed.

 

In hidden passageways. In your chambers. In his.

 

Small moments, decorate your days.

 

With him reading in the library with you, pulling you down a row of bookshelves that have been forgotten about for a millennium.

 

With him thrusting into you between a grove of fruit trees.

 

You’re not a bad person, not a wanton person, but with him, it’s something else entirely. You’d do anything with him if it began with his touch on your skin.

 

And, that’s probably how you ended up in a carriage with him while Thor rides outside. Loki is sprawled on the bench across from you, his eyes roving over your form as you head to the market to prepare for the Allmother’s ball next week.

 

“Stop that,” you scold in a whisper.

 

His lips quirk up, “Stop what?”

 

“Imaging me naked.”

 

He chuckles, “What makes you think I was?”

 

“Your eyes.”

 

So, he asks without care. “Did you like our game last night?”

 

Your eyes widen. “Loki,” you hiss, darting your gaze to the open window.

 

Loki rolls his eyes and with a wave of his hand, the window shuts.

 

And that’s when you warn, “Stop it.”

 

He moves to the bench next to you, lifts your hand, and plants a kiss on it, just in the way that makes you melt against him.

 

“Do we need to refresh your memory on what happens when you try to stop me,” he says against your palm.

 

You, somehow, hold back a groan and shake your head, remembering the torture he put you through with his mouth, fingers, and cock. He tormented you for hours those weeks ago.

 

“Good girl,” he whispers against your palm.

 

Your eyes fall shut, and your mind chastises you to tell him to stop. But how can you stop him, when his hands manage to get inside your skirts.

 

“Did you?”

 

“Hmmm?” You ask, turning your head to look at him. His hands trailing higher, higher, just at the edge of your chemise.

 

“Our game,” Loki reminds you, toying with your underskirts. He playfully nips your hand. “Tell me what you thought of it.” A heat blooms across your cheek as you remember.

 

“I liked it.” You admit in a whisper.

 

Loki’s white teeth close over your skin, painfully. “Details.”

 

Your head drops against the seat, remembering every delightful tremor he pulled from you the night before. “I liked when you fucked my face,” you tell him plainly. “When you forced yourself between my lips and down my throat. When you made me drink it.”

 

His nostrils flare and his breath hitches. “You have yet to say no to anything pet.”

 

You shake your head, “I never will.”

 

He smiles wickedly. “Never is a long time pet.”

 

You arch an eyebrow, “You don’t believe me?”

 

“What if I fuck you in here, with Thor just out that window. Would you like that? Not being able to utter a word?” His fingers trail up, finding your entrance seeping, weeping, for him. “Oh, how desperately you want that. To fuck just under the nose of your husband. With your brother by law.” You groan, eyes screwing shut. “Oh yes, you dirty girl.”

 

You open your eyes to look at him, eyes narrowing when he toys with your entrance but not delving inside.

 

He then takes your palm and presses it against his tented pants. “See what you do to me? I could come like a schoolboy. You deserve to be punished for it.”

 

The carriage stops, making Loki’s hands retreat and a wicked grin cross his face. “Until we are alone again,” he says, opening the door and stepping through, composed; the length of his jacket covering his bulge.

 

You groan, pushing your stray hairs off of your face.

 

Time to play the perfect, proper princess.

 

You step out of the carriage and into the crowd.

 

xXxXx

 

People look at you, smile, wave. They reach their hands out to touch your skin, saying your name over and over again. Like a prayer, like a savior.

 

If only they knew how utterly incapable you are. How lost, broken. A muttering whisper of the figure they believe you to be. And it’s worse when it’s children, when you read to them, their innocent faces looking at you like you’re the stars, the moon. A gleaming representative from Asgard’s inner-sanctum, _The_   Princess.

 

Their faces are still haunting you when you enter the “feminine” sphere of the outdoor markets. It is just a small establishment where women gather around tables to escape the meandering bodies in the marketplace. And there are a lot of tables, small and long, square and circular. All different types for all types of groups.

 

Gossip, masked as cards and drinks, is the tool women use to idle their day away, and this is the perfect place to waste it.

 

When you enter, the acidic scent of overripe flowers assaults your senses, but you move forward, finding a home in an empty seat at one of the smaller tables.

 

“Ladies” you greet, sitting down at a square, wooden table across from Lady Vár. “Alouette?” The Keeper of Oaths smiles in greeting and deals out cards to the four of you at the table. Ladies Auða and Ingrid sit on either side of the table, smirking at one another likely already plotting their strategy. The person across from you, Lady Vár in this instance, is your partner.

 

A large vat of wine sits in the center, calling your name, but it is Lady Auða who fills everyone’s cups.

 

“I think it is what we all deserve,” she laughs when she haphazardly drops the pitcher back to the table. “Particularly given the weather outside. Why must men spend hours in the outdoor stalls looking for the perfect weapon when the skies could open at any moment? I will never understand it.”

 

“Because they know we’ll have an extra cloak for them,” Lady Ingrid answers from your left pulling the glass to her lips and looking at the cards in her hands. “This is a terrible hand, Vár. You should be ashamed.”

 

Vár rolls her eyes, “Already beginning to bluff, Ingrid?”

 

The Master of Coin’s wife shrugs, her volcanic red hair glinting in the natural sunlight that pours in from the windows throughout the building. “It’s never too early to play a game.” Then, she addresses Auða. “I hope you have a good hand.”

 

The words remind you of Loki, which reminds you of the night before, which makes you blush.

 

You bring your own cup to your lips and take a sip, looking at the cards in your hands. This is a miserable hand as well. You sigh, resigning yourself to a loss given they know all of your tells.

 

“Who would like to begin?” Vár asks, laying down one of her cards: a Queen of Diamonds. Clearly, she’s asking who would like to vent first. That is, after all, the real reason you are all here.

 

“My husband is trying to bribe me into having another devil,” Ingrid says with a scoff.

 

“Child,” Auða corrects, putting a 4 down in the same suit, low. She can’t beat the queen. “What’s he offering?”

 

You discard a three. You and Vár should win unless Ingrid can beat the Queen.

 

“Nothing good,” Ingrid says, discarding a king. Bluffing, as always and Ingrid draws the four cards and neatly stacks them at her side. She then lays down an Ace of diamonds.

 

“This game sucks,” Vár surmises something you already knew. “Who chose this game?”

 

“You did,” Auða reminds her.

 

“Another child?” Vár asks with piqued interest, fiddling with her cards.

 

“He needs a mistress,” Ingrid rolls her eyes. “A young thing to play with, let’s find him one.”

 

Your heart drops. “You don’t want that.”

 

“I would castrate Lüdd if he even thought of another woman,” Auða says.

 

“He knows,” Vár and Ingrid say at the same time, then laugh together.

 

“How’s Thor?” Ingrid questions, keeping her olive eyes on you.

 

You drop your gaze to the cards in your hands, playing with the corners. “He’s fine. Preparing for Frigga’s name-day next week.”

 

“Fine?” She raises an eyebrow, “Remember when you used to say Perfection  and  Amazing?”

 

You laugh, “I was a newlywed and enchanted with the idea of marriage back then.”

 

Auða smiles, “Ah, those days of the young and innocent.”

 

“Are you though,” Vár begins, inspecting you. “Fine?”

 

You peer at her, “Of course.” And the false notes in your voice are so obvious that all three girls look at each other with their pursed lips. “Things are fine, they’re constant, you know? Nothing to worry about.” 

 

Discarding a ten, Ingrid reaches her hand out and touches yours. “You wouldn’t really be able to say if they were bad, would you?”

 

“Of course I would.”

 

“It’s just,” Auða begins, ignoring Vár’s quelling gaze. “People have been talking.”

 

“About what?”

 

“About the company you are keeping,” she states.

 

You look at Auða, your gaze harsh and still. “What does that mean.”

 

“People have been noticing,” Vár speaks softly, putting her cards on the table, making all of the women follow. She leans forward, so there is a shred of intimacy between the group. “That you and the Prince have spent a lot of time together recently.”

 

“Of course, he’s my husband.”

 

“Not that Prince, love.” Vár’s whispers.

 

You feel a shiver spread up your spine, your heart drops, your lungs stall. How are you meant to get out of this one? They know your tells, know you. They are your closest allies in Asgard, the four women who were forced together because of timing and court life.

 

“You mean Loki?” Even his name sounds condemning coming from your mouth.

 

“Obviously,” Ingrid’s gaze intensifies. “There have been whispers and noticing your absence at certain… functions. Oddly enough, Loki has been missing as well.”

 

“That’s absurd.”

 

“Is it?” Vár says, leaning in so she’s not overheard. “He’s handsome, and has always been infatuated with you.”

 

“You are crossing a line,” you warn. “You should be careful about who you say these things too.”

 

“We know you wouldn’t,” Auða says with a calming smile. “We just thought you should know, what people are saying.”

 

Then a soft lull in conversation grows through the group as everyone picks up their cards.

 

Inspecting her cards, Ingrid casually asks, “What do you think he’s like in bed?” Auða squeaks, making Ingrid laugh loudly. “Like you haven’t thought about it!”

 

“Of course I haven’t,” Auða shakes her head. “I’ve dreamed about it!”

 

“Auða!” You admonish with a small smile, heartbeat erratically thumping in your chest.

 

“Oh like you haven’t,” Auða teases. “Are you saying all the times you are under Thor’s hulking body you don’t think of someone else?”

 

“No!”

 

You haven’t been under Thor since before. And before you never thought of anyone but your husband in that form.

 

“I bet he’s…” Ingrid pauses for emphasis, pushing her head closer and lowering her voice to a whisper. “All lean body fluidly moving you how he wants.”

 

“Mmm,” Auða suggests, “Or dominating.”

 

“Oh yes,” Ingrid conspires with her. “Not careful in the slightest.”

 

You pull a glass to your lip, happy to have the attention off of you. A flame of jealousy pulses through you as you listen to them discuss your lover’s imagined behavior in bed. You bark out laughter when you need to, smile when appropriate, and remain quiet. Not missing Vár’s serious gaze.

 

When Ingrid and Auða excuse themselves for the privy, you smile tightly at Vár. “How is th-”

 

“I saw you,” she says in one breath, quickly, like a band-aid.

 

“What?”

 

“With Loki. I saw you two.”

 

Your vision blurs when you try to come up with your next words. “You’re mistaken.”

 

“You were kissing quite improperly. In the gardens... with clothing askew.”

 

You hold your breath and fall back into your seat, looking at the woman carefully. Her blonde hair, blue eyes, porcelain skin. They are all ideal replicas of the Asgardian standards of beauty. “It was one time,” you begin. “It hasn’t happened since.”

 

“Don’t lie,” she snaps. “Don’t lie to me.”

 

You pause, looking at her. “You don’t know the truth.”

 

“Then tell me,” she says in a hushed tone. “Please.”

 

“I can’t,” you admit. And seconds pass when she looks at you like the biggest hypocrite, like the harlot you have become. “Are you going to tell?”

 

Vár taps the table, her long fingers knocking on the wood. She’s the only unmarried one of the group. Then, she sighs and slumps. “I haven’t decided yet.”

 

“It’s treason,” you say. “If Thor found out. Or Odin…” You trail off, imagining the possibilities of what would happen. Your marriage nullified, an execution? You don’t know.

 

“Has it really ended?” She asks with hope brimming in her eyes. That’s when you realize, this must feel like a betrayal to her. She’s the one who stands as a witness to every wedding, at your wedding. She holds promises, oaths, pledges of fidelity.

 

You look at her, carefully, honestly. Stripped of pretense, knowing what you should say. And instead, you lie, “Yes.”

 

Vár smiles then, her hand reaching out. “Then, it’ll be our secret.”

 

Ingrid and Auða return debating Lady Ran’s impropriety and you smile, sin eating away at you. Another secret festering under your skin.

 

xXxXx

 

“How were the ladies?” Thor asks when you find him in the marketplace.

 

You tilt your head to glance into his kind, crystal eyes, “They were good.”

 

“Did you win?”

 

“Of course not,” you say, making him throw his head back in honest laughter. His smile is wide, it makes you feel sicker than before. What are you doing? You’re ruining your life. Your eyes fall to the bulging back in his grasp. “Did you get something?

 

“Aye,” Thor says, pulling a delicate red and gold ribbon from his leather side bag and hands it to you. “I thought you’d like it for the ball.”

 

You touch the silk in your hands, knowing it’s meant for one of your gowns. Your red one, likely. It used to be your favorite.

 

You smile at it, the guilt in your stomach turning to a heavy, lead lump. “It’s beautiful.”

 

He inclines his head, and you place your hand through the crook of his elbow, letting him lead you through the market, stopping every few stalls to point out great craftsmanship or to speak to a merchant. Princely, as always. And you smile, saying a word or two. 

 

When you decide to head back, you find Loki waiting by the cart, talking to Lady Vár. She laughs at him and he smiles back. Your heart drowns, doused in an envy you know you shouldn’t feel. He looks carefree standing there. Resting his hip against the door of a carriage, his arms crossed and giving Vár his undivided attention.

 

“Brother,” Thor calls, your hand still tucked in his arm.

 

Loki turns to greet you two, noticing your closeness to Thor the second he sees the two of you. It’s an uncaring mask.

 

Vár notices his indifference.

 

“It appears they have returned,” he notes lightheartedly to Vár. 

 

You pull your hand out of Thor’s arm. It feels… wrong. Thor doesn’t pay it any mind though. Instead, he speaks to your friend loudly. “Lady Vár, my wife was just saying how Ladies Auða and Ingrid ran the table this afternoon.”

 

“As they always do,” she smiles. “Your wife is a terrible strategist.”

 

You swallow thickly, praying her words don’t have more than one meaning. “Aye,” Thor agrees with a laugh. “Plotting has never been her strength.”

 

You can feel Loki’s gaze on you, steaming and dense, trying to make you give him one of your own. The heady knowing look you get before he takes your dress off.

 

And your husband and Vár ramble on about the topics at the gaming tables.

 

But you don’t miss when Loki turns to her, “Can we offer you a ride back to Asgard, my lady?”

 

She looks at him, a blush warming onto her cheeks. You wonder if she’s thinking of what she saw in the garden or about the fantasies Ingrid and Auða divulged at the table.

 

You want her to know. You want her to know that he’s yours.

 

 _Yours_.

 

He’s yours.

 

The thought is unbecoming, and you push it down before it can grow and fester. Before you can give it the thought it needs to bloom. Because you don’t want to feel that right now, not after the truth of everything. And your thoughts are so loud, your heartbeat so thunderous, you can’t hear anything.

 

Vár smiles and touches his arm, you can't hear what she says but it makes Thor and Loki laugh. You fake a smile for appropriate timing. But it’s like the sky has opened above you, just as the clouds are promising.

 

Vár curtseys, smiling as always with dimpled cheeks. “Have a wonderful ride.”

 

“And you, Lady Vár,” Loki pulls her hand, kissing the skin softly, his eyes staying on hers.

 

You’re going to be sick.

 

And on the ride back, Loki rides on one of the horses, instead of next to you in the carriage. It’s better this way, you think. Better to get some space, to clear your head. But you don’t feel that way at all.

 

xXxXx

 

A hand reaches out, tugging you into an empty hall. You shout into the fingers that cover your mouth. When you finally see who is looking at you, you still and quiet. Loki.

 

His face is ferocious. Tense. He leans over you like the Prince he is: a heavy, foreboding body, towering over you with a burdened gaze. “You were touching him.”

 

“He’s my husband.”

 

Loki clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, caging you against a wall and leaning over you. “You did it on purpose.”

 

“Yes,” you admit. “We’re being too obvious.”

 

“We are not.”

 

“People are talking, Loki.”

 

He scoffs, pressing his body to the length of yours, kissing your neck lightly. “So let them.”

 

You shake your head and grind your teeth together, “Vár saw us.”

 

He pulls back then, looking at you from above. “When?”

 

“In the gardens,” you murmur, looking at the ground below you.

 

He grins, Cheshire like. Like a cat that’s cornered prey just where he wants it. “Which time?”

 

You snap your gaze to him, narrowing on his gleaming, mischievous eyes. “Does it matter?”

 

“Very much so.” His hands reach for yours, lacing your fingers together and drag them over your head, holding them there until there’s not a space between you. He leans his head forward to your ear, his breath fanning over your cheek, dragging an unwanted shiver up your spine. “We’d be able to know who is to blame, you or me. Since you have already decided I am to blame, I’d like to know who is truly at fault. Then we could dole out the appropriate punishment.”

 

You inhale sharply, your breath hitching at his meaning.

 

“I’m not blaming you,” you argue, knowing, in your heart, that you wanted to. It’d be much easier to use him as the scapegoat. But, that is a useless spiral to fall down.

 

Loki gathers your wrists into one large grasp. “Oh, but you are. And, if I remember correctly,” he leans in, biting your earlobe as his now free hand drops to your skirts, gathering them in a fistful. “The first time in the garden you nearly attacked me. Shoved me against a tree, already consumed with lust before I even touched you.” His tongue darts out to draw your lobe into his mouth and sucking on it, pinning his hips against yours. You release a ragged breath. “You hiked your legs around my waist, undid my pants and rutted yourself onto me. Like a common whore, in heat.”

 

“Loki,” you say, trying to pull back and block out his vile, intoxicating words. “Stop.”

 

“You don’t really want me to, pet. You want me to take you against this wall as people wander past towards the Dining Hall.” The God lets go of your wrist to gather your skirts, and you keep your arms above your head, so well trained. Loki begins to pull up your dress, just the way you like. Slowly, letting your legs feel the fabric scratch up your thighs and the cool air fondle your skin, before the leather fabric of his pants presses against your skin. It’s a sinful delay. And the slower he goes, the more likely you are to get caught.

 

And that thought puts your skin on fire.

 

You drop your hands to his shoulders, grasping them. And you move your head to the side to capture his lips in a searing kiss. A violating, heated kiss that clouds your brain. He groans into your mouth when you nibble on his lips when your fingers thread into his hair and move his head to the perfect angle.

 

His left-hand drops your skirts and climbs to your neck, circling, firmly pressing on your airway. You pull the strands of his hair when he tightens his grip; when his tongue begins to undulate into your mouth. This is new, you think, when his grip is controlling and nearly violent, but his lips are gentle. You… like it.

 

But, you hear footsteps coming closer.

 

And before you know what you’re doing, you push him away by his shoulders, throwing him to the opposite wall. Your heart beating erratically as you try to catch your breath.

 

His eyes are glossed, crystal blue with a tinge of red. Arousal brimming just around his irises. “What are you doing?”

 

You run the back of your hand against your lips, trying to calm yourself. “I said stop.”

 

“You always say stop, you never mean it, pet.”

 

He inches closer to you, stalking you. And you don’t move.

 

“This time I do.” He falters for a second looking at you like an enigma. And you continue, saying one word, a single syllable, halting him in place. “No.”

* * *

Thank you for every kudos, every comment. I'm so sleepy now, I honestly had trouble editting this. So I apologize for any mistakes. 

You are all the sweetest readers of all time.  

 


	5. but, we were dancing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support.

The days before a ball are tranquil, like Asgard is holding its breath before a final, resounding gasp. Public council is suspended for preparations. Ruling obligations are postponed. Dinners are served in chambers as workers decorate the dining halls with all types of golden grandeur.

 

There’s nowhere to be, no visitors to greet, and no duties to execute.

 

It’s painstakingly docile.

 

But, it gives you time to think. To mull over last month’s indiscretions that have left you entangled in a woven nest of guilt, infidelity, and joy. Because since the moment you fled from Loki in the hallway, spinning on your heel and retreating to the dining hall, you haven’t seen him.

 

He didn’t show up to eat that night and you spent the following one huddled in your own chambers. You have since been spending afternoons on your settee by at the flaming fireplace and trying read the same paragraph over and over again.

 

When you leave your room for the first time since _that_ night, you have no idea where to go. Your body longs for one thing, but your mind protests against it.

 

Instead, you just walk. Aimlessly. Frustrated and heated.

 

You pass through grand hallways, climbing up stairs that spiral to soaring, lofty heights. Until you wander into one that is so tight and narrow, you are barely able to step up the circling stairwell. When the air thins and chills, you realize you’re nearing the top of an open viewing tower. You pause, hand reaching out to the stone wall to steady yourself, and contemplate on if you should continue. Sunlight trickles in from just above you, calling your name. So, you continue and pause when you find an arched sitting alcove lit with an expansive window. It’s serene.

 

You shuffle inside, sitting on the ledge and looking through the mosaic glass that overlooks the ground.

 

Spring has graced Asgard in strokes of pastels. Flowers gleam with a rebirthing beauty that has been missing through the winter.

 

Though it’s not the wild beauty that catches your attention; it’s the two figures walking the grounds. One large, broad, and golden; the other slim, sinewy and dark. Two brothers trek across the yard and towards the outdoor sparring session.

 

Thor stops suddenly and throws his head back, laughing joyfully. Loki grimaces, his demeanor stony.

 

You play with the latch on the window to eavesdrop, but it’s been welded shut. A sharp sense of annoyance flares through you; you just want to hear what’s being said.

 

Dropping your fingers, you decide to just watch them and their mirroring mannerisms as they finally reach the sparring pit. Because even though they aren’t related by blood, they both have similar behaviors.

 

They begin to spar, playfully goading the other to strike. It’s amazing to observe. And as you watch, you scrutinize their fluid fighting strikes, study their anticipation of the other's movements. Loki lunges for his brother who is able to dodge the attack. Thor swings, all power and no finesse, but Loki swiftly avoids it.

 

And as you watch, you lose track of time and your surroundings.

 

A small cough interrupts your reverie. You turn your head quickly, finding Frigga standing behind you. “Allmother,” you greet, shocked.

 

She smiles and waves her hand to stop you from standing to your feet. She perches next to you. Her blonde, greying hair is pulled tightly back from her face in an elaborate, stately braid. But her dress is casual and flowing like she too just went for a walk. “Ah,” she looks at the window. “Who is winning?”

 

You peek back out the window seeing their strategies have changed, Thor is on offense, as Loki evades each attack. “Neither,” you answer, schooling your features as Loki takes a particularly hard hit in the chest.

 

Frigga hums and when you look back at her you find that she’s studying you.

 

“Why don’t you go down? I’m sure Thor would love to see you.”

 

Your stomach plummets at the thought, not at seeing Thor, but at seeing his brother. “I’d be a distraction,” you offer as an excuse.

 

Frigga smiles tersely, polite and strained, and glances back to the window. “He seemed so happy these past weeks, but looks bothered today.”

 

You mirror her and look back at Thor as Loki lands an almost too aggressive attack, chuckling as his brother stumbles ungracefully to the ground and smiles up at him. “Thor’s always happy.”

 

“Not Thor,” Frigga comments. “Loki.”

 

You bite your lip, looking at the raven-haired Prince. He doesn't look particularly happy. His lips lifted for a second in a smile. But other than that his features are trained on his brother in seriousness.

 

“It’s probably only something a mother can see,” Frigga adds, her blue eyes watching the men duel. “But he’s walked lighter this past month, less morose. Like a burden had been lifted. Now... ” Your stomach drops, realizing what she’s probably noticing. Your relationship that bloomed on the precipice of spring. “Not so much.”

 

“I haven’t noticed,” you add. “But if you say it, it must be true.”

 

Frigga doesn’t respond, as the silent air snares with tension. “Do you think it’s a woman?”

 

“What?” You ask, heart thrumming with her question.

 

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Loki,” she adds, her eyes squinting just at the edges. “You always have. Has he been seeing someone?”

 

You fight the flush that is coursing through your veins. “I don’t know. We don’t talk of such things when we’re together.”

 

The corner’s of Frigga’s lips quirk up, in an almost knowing smile. “Oh? What do you talk of?”

 

“Nothing really, Just…” you pause, mind racing with something to deter her inquisition. “Books.”

 

“Books?”

 

“Knowledge,” you add to your lie.

 

Frigga nods and peers at the window, mirth highlighting her features. “It’s a shame then. Perhaps a woman would help,” she teases. “Or a man. Loki’s never been one to discriminate.”

 

You blush at the idea. “Perhaps you are right.”

 

Frigga bows her head, as if in a conspiracy with you. She whispers playfully, “We’ll have to think of someone. He’s due for an engagement. Or something serious.”

 

Anger grips your limbs in tight binds. The images of Loki being wed creates a festering sensation that you can’t even spend time thinking about. Just imagining him at an altar, vowing himself to a faceless woman shades your vision in red. But you can’t think about that. After all, you left him. There’s no reason to feel you have a right to him. Not after you ended your relationship.

 

“Yes, I’m sure he’d love having his betrothed chosen for him,” you jest without a trace of humor, knowing Loki would likely murder anyone who would do such a thing. You can imagine his reaction, angry eyes, taught jaw, rigid posture.

 

Frigga laughs. “We’ll keep this between us then.”

 

You nod your head, “Of course.”

 

Then, the Allmother stands, shaking the skirt of her dress as if wiping invisible marks from it. “I will see you tomorrow, daughter.”

 

You nod as her form steps down the stairs. Then, you turn back to the window, the brothers both on the ground, spent, chests heaving. Loki pushes himself up and scans the grounds before he lazily hits Thor’s side and jumps to his feet.

 

A warm feeling flows through you as he helps his brother up. It encloses on your chest and flutters to your head. And it isn’t until the droplets hit your hand that you realize your crying.

 

You miss him.

 

xXxXx

 

Frigga’s name day is attended to by many. The Great Hall is teeming with guests. Food adorns long tables as the Allmother is paid respects by all major noble families. When she claps her hands once, the crowd immediately quiets. And when she addresses the people, thanking them for their gifts and attendance, they smile adoringly at her.

 

They love her.

 

You fear for the day you’ll be her.

 

How could you ever emerge to her heights? She casts an impossible shadow that blankets the expectations of the populations with a calming sentence. You’ll never be given the pure, unassuming, and unconditional love.

  
It’s terrifying.

 

Because _... you don’t want it._

 

You blink suddenly, waking yourself from the dark and intrusive thoughts. This is the first time in a long time that you’ve contemplated your own desires. It’s been eons since you actually thought about what _you_ want.

 

Thor’s hand climbs to yours and hovered against the back of it, likely noticing how rigid your form is.

 

You look at him, his kind, jovial face sending you a quizzical gaze. You answer with a shake of your head, smiling, and waving his touch off of you. From down the table, you catch Loki’s smolder and it pierces your soul.

 

It’s guarded. And almost cold.

 

A sense of nausea churns your stomach.

 

His eyes dart away from you and to the woman next to him, whispering something in her ear that makes her laugh. Even from where you sit, you can hear it. Her laugh is music. Loki nods politely and turns back to his mother’s speech.

 

She speaks of tenderness and altruism. She honors her husband and his vitality; blesses her sons and their honesty. Acknowledges the Nine Realms, for another year of peace.

 

And she even thanks you, for your fidelity to her son, the nation, and to your duties.

 

You smile uncomfortably through it all, your thought echoing with every word she speaks.

 

_You don’t want this._

 

You feel trapped and suffocated as all eyes in attendance fall to you. You feel like you’re going to be sick. Right here. In front of your people.

 

Hours later, when the roof is replaced with the open sky and the dance floor is expanded, Thor takes your hand and guides you to the floor.  

 

You open the evening dances as is customary for the two of you, given you’re the next in line for the throne. And after your revelation, you forget to detest his touch as much as normal.

 

His beefy hand cages the small of your back, as his other scarred one takes your grasp, dainty and smooth by comparison. “You look beautiful tonight.” He praises as you two begin to move with purpose. You can feel a thousand eyes on you, penetrating you.

 

The burgundy skirts of your dress fan around you after a particularly smooth twirl. “Thank you,” you say, thoughts still tripping over earlier.

 

He sighs, his serene eyes drowning with glints of past indiscretions. “I need to know,” he begins in a voice so low that you have to strain to hear his words over the music.

 

Your tear your eyes from the nothing you were looking at to him. “Yes?”

 

“Can you ever forgive me?”

 

The truth is, you haven’t felt pain from his betrayal or his infidelity in some time. No. It’s been the other pain that has enraptured your attention. The pain of losing what you gained.

 

The pain of losing love and friendship and contentedness. Of spontaneity and jokes.  

 

“I don’t know,” you answer, thinking of him with Sif. The dull pain that isn’t resolved, but isn’t as sharp.

 

Thor nods ruefully. “I love you,” he confesses solemnly.

 

“I know.”

 

He’s expecting you to say it back, but you don’t feel like lying. Soon, couples join you on the floor, all different types: the old, and the young. The Asgardians, and the Vanir.

 

Intermixed and laughing. From your peripheral vision, you see Loki is missing from the dais table.

 

“May I cut in, brother?” You tear your gaze from the crowds and see Loki’s hand clasped over Thor’s shoulder. “I’m sure your toes would like a break,” he jokes, recalling how ungraceful you used to be on the ballroom floor.

 

You scowl at him, “His toes are fine.”

 

Loki quirks one eyebrow at your comment, exuding playfulness, but his jaw tightens and eyes swim with rejection. Thor grinds his teeth when he looks back at you, realizing that the conversation will remain as unresolved as the state of your marriage.

 

“Of course, brother. Be careful though, her shoes are pointed,” Thor quips dryly, dropping his arms to his side. He gives you one last sorrowful glance and pulls away.

 

Loki steps in and hesitates for a moment. When you curtsey, he takes his place in front of you, wrapping you in one arm as his other hand clasps yours. The two of you are close, and too far away. The second you touch, your stomach drops. It’s comforting. And also, oddly empty.

 

You look at his chest, memorizing the patchwork of his ceremonial garb. Green and gold. Swallowing thickly, you try to think of something to say. There has to be something you can say or do to express what you’ve been feeling. But you come up with nothing.

 

So you dance in silence, his head towering over yours, eyes scanning the crowds, lips pulled down.

 

He looks angry.

 

Is he expecting you to say something?

 

Does he want to say something?

 

Finally, after minutes in silence, you give up. “Loki,” you say. “I can’t pre-”

 

His green eyes snap to you, “Don’t.” You instantly quiet, nearly missing his whisper, “I know.”

 

And for the rest of the dance, you stay silent, hands clutched, chests brushing. Your gut hurts from it and your eye tears.

 

And when the strings on the violins quiet, marking the end of your swan song, Loki steps away from you, ripping your heart in two, and bows like you are a stranger. He takes both of your hands and kisses the tops of them, before guiding you to a new partner.

 

He makes his way to through the crowds, beelining towards the doors. The Prince pauses there, green eyes scanning before he spots Vár and Ingrid on the edge of the wall.

 

He saunters over to them, bowing politely in greeting. Ingrid takes a sip of the cup in her glass as Vár and Loki speak. Even from where you stand, you can feel the teasing, light nature of their conversation. It’s distinguished by Loki’s shoulders, rounded with calmness and Vár’s tilt of her head. Her polite smirk.

 

You quickly avert your eyes, knowing it’s impolite to stare, saying single word answers to your dance partner. But your eyes keep darting back to them, watching him. As they skate around, you find Frigga’s gaze locked to her son a small smile pulling at her face as she watches them.

 

Your mind begins to swim. Her skin glows with a contentness only mothers exude. And as you see Loki throw his head back laughing at something Vár said, your heart bleeds onto the dancefloor. You know what she’s thinking.

 

It’s Vár that has changed her son.

 

And you want nothing more than to tell her the truth. To tell everyone the truth. You want to be the truth.

 

But you don’t. You stay silent and focus back on the dance. Being shifted from partner to partner for far too long. Waiting until the moment you can escape. Somewhere between the seventh and eighth song, you find Loki missing from where Ingrid stands. Alone.

 

And your mood shifts just slightly then to a panic.

 

“Excuse me,” you say, pulling out of arms you were in.

 

You pick up your dress and nearly run to the exit.

 

When a hand reaches out to halt you, you nearly trip. You pull your hand, looking into Frigga’s eyes.

 

“Leaving so soon?” She asks.

 

“I’m not feeling well,” you say honestly. She searches your eyes for a few moments, looking into them as your heart thrums in your chest. You will away the panic and the tears and the regret that’s fuming from your pores.

 

She raises one eyebrow, looking oddly similar to her adopted son. Then it drops and well-constructed concern washes over her features .“You’ve been sick often lately.”

 

“Not really,” you disagree. “I’ve just been fighting a bug.”

 

She smiles sadly, “Perhaps a trip to the healers would do you good.”

 

You nod, “I’ll head there tomorrow.”

 

She presses her lips into a thin line, as if wanting to disagree with you, but she drops your wrist. Her face pulls into a disappointed look. Like she’s expected more of you and all you’ve done is let her down. Not that you can blame her. You’re disappointed with yourself too.

 

But you don’t want to be here anymore.

 

And you don’t want to be alone.

 

You pause and wrap your arms around her, dragging her into a hug. You struggle to keep your tears at bay when her arms cautiously wrap around you. “Happy Birthday, mother.”

 

She sighs into your ear, her voice apologetic. “Thank you, daughter.” Then, she steps away, “Go rest.”

 

You nod. As you begin to continue through the doors, you can feel eyes on the back of your head following you.

 

You tumble through the doors, like a newborn on limbs, searching and clamoring for where to go. Your mind says go back to your room. To hide where it’s safe and simple. Where you’re sure to spend your night lost in between a book. Or, you can go to his room, to see him, to talk to him, to explain to him.

 

He shouldn’t be with her. He should be with you. He should know how you feel.

 

Because you feel a lot.

 

But you shouldn’t.

 

And every step you take in the halls, every step that reverberates off the walls, is like a poignant piece of your being clicking into place. Your sadness dissipates. Your footsteps are lighter. Your heart jumps in your chest.

 

A fear of them being together stabs you like nothing you’ve ever felt. LIke a metallic knife shredding your dignity in two.

 

You don’t even care if anyone sees you.

 

In fact, you hope someone does.

 

You want to be free. You want to see him.

 

And, before you know it, you’re in front of his door. Again. You’re looking at it, at the knob, at the wood. And before you knock, you inhale a deep, guttural breath.

 

You know what you want to say, what you need to say.

 

You just need to make sure he listens.

 

Confidence worms through you, you've been here before. There's no need to be upset. Until, a feminine and familiar masculine voice echoing down the hallway.

 

He’s not alone.

 

* * *

 

I wonder who the voices are. Is it Loki? Is it Thor? Is it someone else?   


Who knows?! (I do)

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always thank you for all of the support. xoxo

Tumblr: [MichelleLeahhh](https://michelleleahhh.tumblr.com)


	6. I loved you in spite of deep fears that the world would divide us

Thank you for your patience. A nice, long chapter is coming your way. 

* * *

 

In the past few months, you’ve grown familiar with Loki’s footsteps. They are, after all, very distinct. The poignant, lithe footfalls puncture the air in a measured, sharp tempo like quick strikes of a sword against stone.

That’s how you know it’s him just around the corner.

Him and a woman.

Her light voice permeates the silent hallway with laughter while his voice is deep and playfully biting. As they get closer, their conversation gets more and more recognizable. It’s a careful, pleasant conversation that you can’t begin to comprehend, merely because the blood in your ears is so loud. It thumps along with your fluttering heart.

He’s with a woman.

That is the only thought that you can focus on. Not that you’re outside his room. Not that he’s circling and getting closer. Not that anyone can see you here, where you most definitely should not be.

Your narrow mind is focused on the single thought of a woman.

He’s sought the comfort of another even after everything you’ve been through. Is he truly so rash? So apathetic?

And, are you so daft as to believe that he would be pining for you? Are you so foolish as to want that? Perhaps. Perhaps it was too much to ask that you be loved, desired, and cherished in such a way.

You cringe when you hear her forced laughter echoing down the hallway again. She sounds ridiculous, really. Chasing after Loki with fake, superfluous merriment. She’s likely one of the viper courtiers who wait with beady eyes ready to snake unsuspecting victims into their grasp. Then again, Loki could never be an unsuspecting victim.

He was always suspecting, waiting. Which meant he knew exactly what she wanted and he was going along with it anyway.

Their shadows begin to creep closer to you, just before the turn to where you’re standing. The anxiety of seeing him sends a thrilling fear through you that makes your heart palpitate. Looking around yourself, you realize there’s nowhere to hide, no shadows to blend into. Panic swells, so you do the only thing you can think of. You quickly reach your hand to Loki’s door and without thinking dart into his room.

Quickly and quietly, you shut the door behind you, barricading yourself in his chambers. You rest your back against the door, looking at his room with fresh eyes.

Always so neat, so imposing, and yet, empty.

It’s like Loki lives the shadow of a life. Sure, it’s filled with objects, books, and papers. But the room is barren in an odd way, like everything in it is meant to just appear to be there. Nothing is meant to actually be used or enjoyed. You’ve never noticed how empty he must really feel in here.  

Footsteps draw nearer to the door and you back away from it, dashing quickly to the fireplace on the far left of the room. You huddle against the wall just next to the hearth.

You inhale deeply, trying to calm your rolling stomach.

The doorknob twists and opens just slightly.

“Are you not going to invite me in?” She asks.

The voice is familiar. Cursing to yourself, you look around trying to find a swift exit in case they enter. There’s nothing.

Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. His bath chambers are farther in the room, and if you were to try and go in there, they may be able to see you. His bedchambers… is likely where they’d head. No, the best you could do is stand your ground. You refuse to cower.

“I think not, Lady Runa.”

Lady Runa. You grimace, remembering that she and Loki had a brief, adulterous relation nearly a hundred years ago. “Why? We used to get along so well.” You close your eyes, trying to imagine Loki’s facial expression. The annoyed look on his face.  Hard eyes, taut jaw, pursed lips.

“I have no interest.”

“You used to be quite interested.”

“Things change,” Loki spits dully.

Then Runa laughs again. That obnoxious, splitting sound that has taken a bitter tune. “So, it is true?” But he doesn’t answer, he doesn’t fight back. “I’ve heard you have not taken any to your bed in these past months, I just didn’t believe it...” she trails off.

Loki’s voice is dark when he answers after a few moments. “Believe what?”

“That you have finally taken a liking to someone.” Your pulse quickens.  

“I haven’t.”

“Who is it?” She asks over the Prince, dismissing his dismissal. “Could it be Eir? No, she’s too plain for you. Perhaps Vár? She’s beautiful, powerful, convenient.” Loki is quiet as Runa prattles on naming various women and their shortcomings. “Or have you just decided to take a vow of celibacy?”

Suddenly, there’s a gasp and a thump outside. The door opens a bit more and you can hear Runa’s gasp as she fights for air. Their silhouettes fall inside the room, Loki’s fist clenched around her throat with her pressed against the wall just next to the entrance.

“You forget yourself, Runa. I just no longer need a housebroken whore to satiate my needs.”

Lady Runa’s response is gurgled and you can hear her arms slapping against Loki’s forearm. Then he unceremoniously drops her in an ungraceful heap to the ground. “Next time you see me, look away,” he advises darkly. Then, the Prince of Asgard steps over her, enters his chambers, and shuts the door.

You stand there, hands knitted in your lap as Loki stands in his doorway, chest heaving. He pushes back his raven hair, deflating nearly instantly. He licks his lips and turns to the fireplace, likely longing for a drink, but his eyes fall on yours instead.

They harden instantly, and his shoulders rise again. “What are you doing here?”

You swallow thickly, nerves fraying with each second that passes.

What _are_ you doing here?  

That is a good question.

“Loki,” you begin, biting your lip, trying to think of what to say.

You’re here because you couldn’t stand the thought of him not knowing how you felt. You couldn’t stand the thought that he would be alone for the night. Couldn’t stand the thought that _that d_ ance would decide your fates.

His face hardens, “Do you want a quick fuck too?”

You tilt your head back his language, eyebrows knitting across your forehead. He’s never spoken so brazen before, so plainly vulgar. You simply shake your head and whisper, “No.”

He takes a predatory step towards you. “Then _what_ are you doing in my rooms.”

Your mouth falls open, it’s dry as sandpaper. “I…”

“You…” he mocks, “You what?”

With a shake of your head, you come back to the moment, remembering why you’re here. “I wanted to see you.”

He takes another stride “Why?”

You pause, realizing something for the first time. “Is it true, have you really been with no one else since me?”

Loki’s eyes darken into black pools. He rushes forward, pinning you to the wall behind you with his body. “You. It’s always about _you_ , isn’t it, sister? Always about what you want, _what you need_.”  His voice is hard as he looks at you with a wave of anger you haven’t seen. “And what about me? I’ve become the laughing stock of court chasing after something that can never be mine.”

The grip on your shoulder is hard, clasping you tightly and pinning you so you can’t move. The fingertips dig into your skin, likely leaving marks. You try to wriggle out of his clutches, but find his grasp only tightens. With a grimace, you speak, “Loki, you’re hurting me.”

His eyes, which are now a light shade of red, narrow on you as he leans down, “Good,” he says, dangling close to your lips. “You’ll know how it feels then.”

“Stop,” you say, panicking, trying to pull away. You need to talk to him. You need to tell him.

He pushes off of you roughly, his eyes turning back to their pale green hues. “Leave.”

You shake your head, “I need to talk to you.”

“You’ve already made it perfectly clear,” his tone, which was stony and demure turns fragile.

“No, I haven’t,” you disagree.  

He pivots and walks to the bar nestled along the same wall as the fireplace, pouring himself a generous cup. He downs it in four seconds and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. You’ve never seen him so unhinged before. “Speak,” he commands before filling his glass again.

But, how do you quantify what you want to say? How do you explain what you are feeling? How do you explain that the thought of losing him is a worse fate than death? You’d rather die, rather lose a throne, a husband, a future, than lose him.

Has he really not taken another since having you? You try to think of the many nights you were in his bed, the many days. He’s utterly insatiable. Loki has always had the reputation of someone who juggles many women. And yet, he turned other women away. Clearly. There was no way for him to know you were here. Loki could have taken her into his room, he’s uncommitted and a prince. But he didn’t.

He entered _without_  a woman.

Your mind is now stuck on _that_ fact.

Loki ungracefully tosses the cup back to the table and you jump at the sharp sound of glass on stone.

“I have a problem,” you hastily confess.

He turns to you with a grimace on his face, his lips pulled tight. But, before he can say a word you can you laugh bitterly, “Actually, I have a few.” Loki’s lips pull back, bearing his teeth in a predatory way. “I don’t want a throne. I don’t want to be Queen.” You take a hesitant step towards him, heart hammering in your chest.  

There comes a point in life, where you stand on a steep cliff with two possibilities.

You can either turn around and head back to safe grounds, knowing what you are bound for.

Or, you can jump off of that cliff, destined for an uncertainty. If you fall, you could be hurt, obliterated on jutting rocks. But, if you don’t jump, you’ll never know how it feels to fall.

The pain would be better than not knowing, than not telling him.

“I will never be able to bed my husband again.” You confess, taking another step so you are close to him. One of Loki’s eyebrows lifts, looking over your form. “I wish I never married him. Wish I never met him. Loki, I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“I have to,” you say, swallowing thickly, trying to not cower as you jump off the ledge. “I love you.”

And the landing hurts.

Loki takes the pitcher of wine and hauls it at the wall. It shatters into a million pieces, cutting your skin in tiny, superficial lesions.

He turns back to you, lips pulling back. “You are an idiot.”

This hurts more than a physical blow, tears prickle your eyes and nausea swims in your stomach. “I know.”

“Do you?” He turns to look at you. He lifts a hand to your face, smearing the blood from one of the cuts on your cheek. His voice softens as he draws smooth circles on your cheek. “You couldn’t possibly know.”

You close your eyes, holding back a grimace at the pain. You simply nod, keeping tears at bay. Norns, you’re so emotional, pregnant with sentimentality. He’s made you like this, you realize.

His hand drops from your cheek, and when you open your eyes, you see him licking your blood from his fingers.

An unwanted sense of arousal shoots to your core, and for the first time all night he doesn’t look at you like your broken or vile. He just looks.

Then, he prophesizes, “This will destroy you.”

When Loki’s pink-stained hand grasps your chin, he tilts your head up. “I don’t care,” you admit.

You are doomed. But for now, you’ll take what you can to be happy. Because these past months only showed you how unfulfilled you have been since marrying Thor. You refuse to turn back.

When you think Loki is going to kiss you, you shut your eyes, waiting for that moment of bliss. Then his touch turns chilling, so cold that it almost hurts. You realize he has turned to Jotunn form.

You peek through one eye, finding his azure skin. “Get on the bed,” he nearly growls.

“That’s not why I’m here,” you tell him.

“I’m not going to repeat myself.”

Your eyes search his red ones, looking in them without fear. You refuse to fear him.

Loki would never hurt you.

So, you spin on your heel and walk into his personal chambers, climbing to sit on the edge of his grand bed. You wait there, picking at a stray seam of your dress.

When he finally enters, you realize he has removed his shirt. Your eyes rove over his skin, caressing the thick bands of muscle along his defined chest, tracing the raised markings along his body. You would never tire of looking at him. Anticipation and desire pools in your lower body.

He saunters to the bed, his lips pulling into a frown. “On your hands and knees.”

“Loki,” you begin but he cuts you off.

“Do you want me?”

Your eyes widen for a brief moment, before answering with truth, “Yes.”

“Then do as your told.”

You stare at him for a moment, heart hammering in your chest, as you scrutinize his stoic and guarded demeanor.

Then, you slowly maneuver to do as your told. Your gown restricts your movements, making you stumble at first, but you move it so the skirt bunches just above your knee and you get on all fours. In your haste to do as told, you’ve turned from him and towards the pillows.

You bite your lip in anticipation, as you feel Loki lift up your dress. When he gets it pushed up around your hips, he moves your chemise leaving you bare. You shift, uncomfortably, realizing that you’re on display for his observation.

“Already so wet,” he comments, drawing a lazy finger up your thigh and lightly passing over your southern lips. His icy touch sends a shiver up your spine, it’s like he’s colder than normal. You release a groan from the tantalizing sensation. “Shhh,” he whispers, swiping his finger just inside to gather your juices. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you agree without hesitation, trying hard to not rut back on his hand. You let your head fall unable to keep it up and focus on the bed beneath you.  

He hums from behind you, letting his finger trace along the seam of your sex, careful to not tease any sensitive bits. “My hand or a belt?”

“What?” You ask, lifting your head, trying to look at him. You realize his gaze is riveted on your backside.

“Would you like to be punished with my hand or a belt?” He repeats, void of any malice or affection.

“Punished?”

“You’ve hurt me, pet. Making it seem like you didn’t want me anymore, ignoring me. You need to learn you can’t treat me like that again.”

You say his name, trying to turn and catch his gaze. He has to know that you didn’t want to hurt him, that you would never do that again. Until he tsks, stopping you from moving by caging your hips in his long, spidery hands. He leans over you, his body pressing against your back to keep you still on all fours.

His lips are at your ear and you can feel his icy breath grazing over your skin. “Trust me,” he whispers again. “You will like this game.”

You sigh, nod, and try to lift your hand to graze his hair, only to find your hands are being held by seidr on the bed. You fight the fear growing inside of you.

He asked you to trust him, so you will.

“Your hand,” you finally answer, wanting his touch on you.

Then, Loki kisses the crook of your neck, nipping your skin playfully.  “Good choice,” he whispers.

He stands up again and lets his hand rove over your backside. He parts your butt cheeks, “Has anyone ever taken you here?”

He must already know the answer. But you still shake your head.

“Hmm,” he begins. “Another day, perhaps.”

He palms your skin and with one, hard stroke slaps your rear.

A gust of air lurches from your lung and you release a gasp, shocked that he hit you. You try to move, only to find that your entire form is stuck in this position.

“Loki, stop.” You try to sound firm, but your voice comes out stuttering.

“Shhh,” he whispers, his hand roving over your skin, caressing it. The cool touch calms your burning skin. “Did it hurt?”

You lick your lips, focusing on the feeling, but decide to not answer, afraid at what he’d think if you said the truth.

“No, it didn’t, did it?” He asks, merely to himself, he pulls back his hand. Without his touch, it stings slightly, but it’s not outwardly painful. No. In fact, your body flushes with heat when you admit to yourself that you almost liked it. Humiliation simmers with the pain of your skin. The prince knows exactly what he’s doing, what he’s manipulating your body to feel. “Twelve, one for each day of you avoiding me. You will count.”

You swallow thickly. Then, sealing your fate, you nod.

“Always so good to me,” he gushes. Then he lifts his hand and strikes hard. He pauses again, letting his touch cool your heated skin.

Loki clears his throat and you remember. “Two,” you speak.

“Good, pet.” He assaults your other cheek, giving your right one a break. The pleasure zips through you at his touch. Particularly when he caresses your skin. You can practically feel his eyes admiring your skin, likely marked under his touch.

“Three,” you grit out, slightly humiliated by what he’s doing to your body.

Then, his slaps get harder and in a faster melodic repetition. Tears form in your eyes as you count with him: four, five, six, seven, eight. He continuously moves his hands just so he never strikes the same place twice, but they are close enough that the mere vibrating skin makes you cry out.

When you shout _nine_ , the first tear falls down your cheek. He pauses then attuned to your shaking body, letting his hands pause on your skin. The cool feeling of his touch calms you for a moment. “You should see yourself,” he nearly sneers. He shifts behind you so he is pressed against your bare skin. The rough leather of his outfit would hurt if you weren’t distracted by the distinct bulge straining against his pants. “Do you feel what you do to me? How you make me want you.”

Without further acknowledgment, he hits you again, but this time, directly on your sex. You squeal, squirming when his hand stops there. His cold touch stings more than his hit.

“Ten,” you manage to stutter out, shocked as his fingers begin to play with your entrance. They just slightly dance along your slick skin.

“Flooding,” he muses. Loki sways away from you and the next thing you know, you feel his member bounce against your ass at the same time another smack assaults your sex.  This time, directly on your clit and substantially less powerful.

And your body does the unthinkable, your back concaves into a deep arch that opens yourself more to his touch. You try to hide it, but it’s too late.

He snickers from behind you, one finger circling around your clit, playing with your body like a bowstring in tight, tiny twirls.

“Eleven,” you say, abandoning all sense of propriety and basically falling to the bed.

The twelfth snap hurts, it’s painful, searing. But as soon as it lands on your ass, Loki stuffs himself inside of you, grunting. He pauses, leans over you so you can feel everything. Every drop of sweat, every muscle, every hair.

His voice is animalistic in your ear. Talking about how tight you are, how soft, how warm. But you can’t comprehend it, all you can feel is his still member inside of you, his cold skin bracketing you.

Loki fists your dress and rips it in two. Easily. He pushes it down your arms so your whole body is bare for him.

His mouth is at your ear, lingering on the shell of it. He pulls out and slams back in, in a painful thrust that rivals his hand. “You were so good. Such a worthy, pet. Tell me what you want and it’ll be yours.”

You lift your head to the side, moving it so you can feel his lips on your cheeks. From the corner of your eye, you can see him: pink lips, blue skin, red eyes, and ebony hair. He inches out of you before thrusting roughly back in. “Do you like being stuffed? Does it feel good like this? Do you like being fucked by a monster?” He asks, biting your jaw, pistoning inside you again. You pant, pulling back again, realizing you are able to move your hand now.

He thinks himself a monster, always has when in this form. It’s, after all, not the only time he’s called himself that. And, he’s so wrong.

With more power than you should be able to, you manage to throw him off kilter with a hard shove. He falls to his back in a heap, looking at you with pained darkness simmering in his eyes. It’s sorrowful, even. Wounded.

He believes you’re rejecting him.

Black eyebrows knit across his forehead. You take one moment to look at him, chest heaving on his back, cock glistening with your juices and bobbing against his abdomen.

Then, you crawl up his body, kissing a path as you go. He has to know. He’s not a monster. You pause at his hips and take his sex in your own hands. You run your hand along with it, feeling the weight of it in your grasp, and you blow on it.

He shifts onto his forearms, maneuvering himself so he can see you.

“Would I do this to a monster?” You ask, leaning forward to lick fatly along one of his markings to the bulbous head.

“Would I touch a monster like this?” You tighten your grasp and pump him at a smooth pace.

“Would I suck a monster?”

And then, you let your mouth envelop him. You take him as far as you can and use your fist on the rest of his skin. Your eyelids flutter shut, as you move over him, using your tongue to taste him. His skin is salty and icy, it satiates you and also makes you want. Your core aches for him.

You use your free hand to roll his sac in your palm, pinching it as your mouth passes over him.

You moan, delighted by the taste.

“Fuck,” Loki snarls from somewhere above you, reacting to the vibrating sensation of your voice on his cock.

When you open your eyes, you see Loki. He looks like a God more at this moment than any other: flared nostrils, head thrown back, and the vein on his neck popping from exertion.  He looks like pure power.

And it makes you feel powerful. You’re the one making him like this. Spent, heaving, shining with sweat.

You double your efforts, pulling him in farther, sucking him harder, using your teeth to graze him in _just_  a way. And then his hand is in your hair, guiding your movements, his hips thrusting up from the bed to use your mouth in _such_ a way.

“Perfect,” he sighs. “Norns, I’m going to come.”

You moan again, beginning to feel your arousal dripping down your thighs.

Loki’s hands grasp your hair painfully. Your head is peeled away and your flat on your back again.

He crawls up your body. Unlike you, he doesn’t pause until he reaches your lips. He kisses you, hard, his tongue coating your lips until thrusting inside at the same time he reenters you.

He tilts your hips, forcing the breath from your lungs with each authoritative thrust. It’s demanding. Demanding you to come. Or, is that his fingers? They trail down your body and between your sexes, catching your clit and pinching it, twisting it harshly.

He grunts, completely unhinged. He presses his open mouth against yours, his tongue flicking your lips.

The only thing you can do is try and match his thrusts as his touch sends a shock into your system. You feel yourself climbing a precipice. It’s unlike any of your couplings. It’s needy and completely unhinged. You claw his back and tilt your head, pushing his mouth to the crook of your neck.

“Bite me,” you say, roughly, fucking him as much as he’s fucking you. Your skin slaps together. The markings on his cock scratch your walls deliciously. You’re too far gone to think rationally about pain or betrayal or markings.

And then his teeth clamp on you.

You see stars in a way you haven’t before.

The pain mixed with the pleasure of his pistoning cock. It’s perfect.

It’s bliss.

He follows you over the cliff, falling and falling into the searing comfortless below. He falls on top of you, licking the new mark on your neck. Sticky liquid oozes from where he bit you.

After minutes like this, he begins to pull away, but you cross your ankles behind his back, holding him in place.

“No,” you grunt, putting your arms around him.

He chuckles, kissing your cheek. “I have to.” He puts both of his hands on the bed and begins to lift himself.

“No,” you shake your head again, trying to hold on tighter.

He sighs and hangs his head to pecks your lips, red gaze still staring back at you.

“Let me care for you.”

xXxXx

A year flutters by with little wings and a blurring commotion of tangled limbs, bed sheets, and memories.

Things are good.

The type of good that doesn’t need to be expressed. It’s content and easy.  Effortless.

You and Loki, unlike the first time, are careful. Well, more careful. You still take chances in the library or garden, but you shroud yourselves in his seidr. He’s careful to always put up an illusion so no one can see you.

But they can hear you if you aren’t quiet. At least that’s what he normally growls against your skin. He makes it a game. Though you know, he wouldn’t put you in danger.

He hasn’t reciprocated your own admission. The three words you confessed in his room that night. The night your own form of reality came tumbling down. And you haven’t said them again. But you think it’s quite evident how he feels about you when he’s so careful with you. When he’s at dinner and sending longing looks your way. When you’re wrapped in his arms during the night, satiated.

Thor… is patient. Kind. The perfect, doting husband that tries all he can to make up for what has become a small mistake. He didn’t have an affair. He had a one-night mistake.

You have willingly entered into the worst type of betrayal and you should feel awful, but the truth is… you couldn’t stop if you wanted to. The very thought of leaving Loki behind kills you. Burns you.

The only time you really see your husband is at family functions.

That’s probably how you found yourself in his bulging arms at another one of Odin’s frivolous balls. It’s the anniversary of the Vanir-Æsir treaty, which brought the end to the last major war. The war that lasted a thousand years.

Thor’s quiet and tense; you’re silent and contemplative, counting down the moments until you can end the night in Loki’s arms. Maybe with you on top of him. He loves it when you are on top.

You smile at the thought of having him under you. Maybe you’ll tie him again.  

“What are you thinking of?” Thor asks, making small talk.

You grimace, trying to think of something. “Nothing really.”

He’s silent again and you’re back to imagining your brother-in-law between your legs.

As if sensing your thoughts, Loki re-enters the hall, a look of anger on his face. You see Frigga and Odin following, both of their lips pulled down as well.  

“Do you remember our first dance?” Thor asks. You quickly look away from the door and back to your husband, jarred at the memory. He was so drunk that night.

“Of course,” you say. “You had just won a tournament.”

Carefully, you glance back to the entrance. Vár arrives, her arms crossed over her chest as she hastily walks to the dais and sits on the outer edge next to her family.

“Aye, a tourn to celebrate a thousand years since the end of the war.”

“No, it wasn’t,” you argue dismissively, that would mean today was the anniversary of your first dance.

Thor laughs, happily. “I remember. You wore that little purple dress with flowers in your hair. Loki wouldn’t stop talking about mother’s little handmaiden in the _lilac_ gown. He wanted to bed you back then.” You bite your lip, silently thinking of that night long ago. But realizing that Loki had wanted you, that you could have been his all this time… You were so shocked when Thor asked for a dance. A part of you always believed you’d have Loki. The way he looked at you when he believed you didn’t notice was the way a man looked at gold. “I asked for my father’s permission to pursue you after that night.” Your eyes dart to his face, realizing that he’s speaking the truth. “That means tonight is in a way, our anniversary.”

“Thor,” you begin, realizing where this is heading.

“It’s been over a year. I’ve been patient, I need my wife.”

“I can’t,” you refute, shaking your head. You try to find Loki but see he is sitting at the head table angrily downing a glass of wine. An eerie feeling takes hold. “Let’s talk about this later,” you offer instead.

And, by the grace of the Norns, Odin stands stomping Gungir, his mighty spear, against the stones.  You and Thor separate. That’s when Loki stumbles to his feet. Frigga moves to her son’s side, whispering harshly in his ears. He shakes his head, lips still turned down.

Other nobility takes their places behind the Allfather.

Servants begin to walk around with glasses full of crisp wine from Alfheim. Thor pulls two cups from a wandering tray and hands you one of them.

“What is this?” You ask him.

“Ah,” Thor smiles widely, already forgetting your conversation, and leans down like he’s about to speak when Odin finally begins.

“Pardon the interruption, I promise you can all get back to the revelry shortly.” People clap as the Allfather continues, “As many of you know, today marks the anniversary to the end of our people’s most violent war in memory. Many believed there would be no end. But, alas, there was and we are able to celebrate such a joyous occasion with another. After years of formal debauchery, my youngest son Loki has finally promised himself to another.” The roar in the crowd is instantaneous. And they clap with adoration, realizing what it means. It means a wedding. A royal wedding. And that means balls, and feasts, and excitement for many people.

They don’t know what it means for you.

Your heart splinters, your stomach drops. You’re going to be sick.

Odin uses Gungir again to calm the crowd, smiling joyfully. “I know how excited you all are. I too am ready for another reason to celebrate. Details will soon be known. For now, though, please raise your glasses to Prince Loki and the lovely Lady Vár.”

* * *

I'm [MichelleLeahhh](https://michelleleahhh.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. 

Hope you are enjoying. 

Did you see that one coming? What do you think is next? 


	7. So, baby can we dance through an avalanche?

“Say something,” Loki whispers from the wall he’s standing against.

 

You lick the wine from your lips and drag your finger along the rim of the cup you’re drinking. The fire makes the room warmer than it needs to be. You want to be shivering. At least then you’d be as uncomfortable as you feel. Instead, you’re nestled on the sofa staring at the fireplace, trying your best to mentally flee from here.

 

It’s difficult.  

 

Nausea can’t even begin to describe the pit of despair gnawing the lining of your stomach. And the stench of hopelessness hangs heavy with a hint of longing. It’s a musky, tangy scent. But you hide all of it: your pain, loneliness, and fear shroud behind a wall of indifference.

 

“Like what?” You ask, coldly. Your brain is still stuck on the announcement of the evening.

 

 _Engaged_. Loki is engaged. To Vár, your friend.

 

And you can’t do anything about it. He was never yours, to begin with.

 

“Anything.”

 

You sigh and take a long pull from your goblet then place it on the table next to you. “Did you know?”

 

“I should have seen it coming. Mother’s been hinting at this for a long time,” he explains.

 

You sigh, irritated by his answer. “It’s a yes or no answer, Loki.”

 

Loki’s jaw tenses, his shoulders stiffen, but he answers, “Not until a few moments before the announcement.”

 

“That’s good.” With a nod, you finally glance back over at him, carefully examining him. He looks as terrible as you feel. Which is awful, especially for the typically composed Prince.

 

His black hair falls in unruly curls and there are dark-rimmed circles around his eyes. They’re sunken and empty like he too has just lost all hope. He’s already changed out of his ceremonial clothing. The green, cotton chemise he wears is askew and haphazardly hanging on his lithe frame, atypical for the usually composed Prince of Asgard. He’s so devoid of color, that his typically sparkling, mischievous eyes stare back at you with a smoky emptiness.

 

For a moment, you think he must feel as empty as you. As stuck.

 

He couldn’t deny an engagement unless he felt affections towards another. And, while he may feel something towards you, he can’t admit it.

 

Because, again, you were never his, to begin with.

 

If you could hold him tightly and bury yourselves beneath what would be an avalanche of protests, you would. You would stand with him.

 

But you know that’s not reasonable or possible.

 

It is ridiculous to even contemplate. You want to disappear. A shadow of hate falls over you. You realize how stupid you’ve been, how idiotic. To play these games at court was one thing, but to fall in love with him is another.

 

He stays silent, watching you. His lips are pressed tightly together, thin and stressed.

 

Misery claws up your throat and sticks in your mouth, staying there until you can’t take it anymore.

 

And then a tear falls, just one. It rolls down your cheek and you close your eyes, hastily wiping it away so he can’t see.

 

But the wall has fallen, crumpled. You hunch over, grasping your chest and breath in deeply as tears seep from your eyes.

 

Loki rushes over to the settee and sits next to you, quickly pulling you into his cold embrace. He runs his long fingers through your hair, playing with the strands as you continue to weep into his shirt. Weep for what could have been but never can be. For the past year. For when you deluded yourself into thinking that you could continue as you were forever. That your duties as a Prince and married Princess would never catch up to you.

 

You were so naive.

 

Honestly, though, there is no way to continue on as you have been. The only solution is a resolution. A whimpering defeat.

 

Instead, you cling to Loki. Your hands grasp his tunic as you bury your face into his chest, soaking his shirt, leaving a mark on him. As if tears can mark his chest, leave a motif on his skin for all to see. A brandish. A scar.

 

Because you would carry his mark if given the chance. You would carry him inside you for as long as he’d like.

 

His hand falls to the middle of your back, rubbing small, smooth circles. Loki tries to lull you to sleep, acting out all your calming rituals. He tilts his head so his lips press against your forehead. He massages away the stress. He whispers sweet reassurances.

 

But you don’t feel calm, relaxed or reassured.

 

You feel like a waterfall, slipping away and spilling towards a jetty.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in a broken voice, pulling you closer to his chest. Then, his pale hand grasps your chin and tilts your head up. He brings his lips to yours kissing them softly, lovingly.

 

It’s the type of kiss that says a thousand words without a sound.

 

You have nothing to compare it to, but you can hear what it means.

 

When he pulls away, Loki’s eyes are glistening, sorrowful. Unbridled tears gather in his dark lashes. And you wait for him to say it, to end it. Because you won’t.

 

You can’t.

 

You’ve already given up too much to give him up too.

 

But he doesn’t say a word; instead, he lays you down on the couch and carefully removes your dress. He kisses every inch of your skin in the same way he pecked your lips.

 

Softly, delicately.  With a deeper intent that makes your heart hammer away.

 

Is this a symbolic end?

 

But when he dissipates his clothing with a flash of seidr, he presses his skin against yours. And he stays there along the length of your body, nestled between every crevice of skin. When his lips touch yours again, no words need to be said. It’s languid and slow. Paced as if eternity is on your side. Yet, it is not.

 

His tongue searches your mouth, willing yours to join it and dance. His lips command yours, demand your response and willfulness. He nips, and bites, and licks, until you respond.

 

You do.

 

You join his pirouetting tongue as desire pools in your core.

 

Through it all, only one sentence swims through your mind: you should not be doing this. Especially not now, while depressed and heartbroken.

 

But you do.

 

He enters you, slowly, inch by inch, so you can feel every centimeter of him. When his hips are flush against yours, he pulls away from your lips and looks down at you in a way that steals your breath. His hands bracket your face, pulling your hair back to search your eyes.

 

You hope he finds what he is looking for.

 

And, he does.

 

“This is not the end,” he finally says as he retreats from your body, scraping against your tightening walls.

 

When he reenters he says, “This is just the beginning.”

 

You swallow thickly, a tear falling down your cheek again. “Loki…” you begin, shaking your head.

 

“You’re going to come with me,” he continues, receding and thrusting again. He finds a slow rhythm that makes your cells awaken. “Then, we’re going to fall asleep and tomorrow I will find a way out of this. I will refuse her hand publicly.”

 

Your eyes widen as you listen to each of his words to his silent declaration. And his thrusts, his sexual vigor renews. He quiets: licking, nipping, indulging your body. His skin caresses yours, his breath fans over your flushed skin.

 

Sometime later, you do come. As his seed coats your inner walls, as his member swells with finality, you bite his neck and mewl. You cling to him when fresh tears gather in your eyes. It will never be the same again.

 

There’s no way he could refuse her. What could be the reason?

 

He will be with her, intimately, happily. She will have his children.

 

When he lays you in bed, your face resting on his clammy, sweat covered chest, you finally exhale. You finally breathe.

 

His hand continues to pet your head in smooth strokes, drawing designs with the tips of his fingers.

 

It’s silent except for your combined breaths.

 

“You cannot end the engagement,” you finally say rationally.

 

The hand on the crown of your head stutters for one moment before resuming. As always, Loki is the picture-perfect poised Prince. “You’d have me marry her?”

 

You purse your lips, thinking as you stare at the red tapestry of your bedroom. “You’ll have to marry someone.”

 

“I’m the heir to Jotunheim, I don’t _have_  to do anything.” His voice is so authoritative, so commanding, that you almost believe him. Loki’s never actually acknowledged his future on Utgard’s throne, the castle of the Jotunn giants, but here he is saying it so plainly.

 

“A king will always need a partner.” This is a fact you know quite well.

 

Loki sighs from above you. You want to look at him, but you’re eyes lazily remain glued to the walls.

 

Finally, he concedes. “It will be a loveless marriage.”

 

You smile sadly, kissing the pectoral under your cheek before resettling on it like a pillow. You know that love is built layer after layer, through stolen moments. People’s opinions can change. Relationships are relative to the time spent together. Few sparks are instantaneously fanned into flames. The relationship between Loki and yourself is not ordinary.

 

“Perhaps your love will grow with time,” you serenely speak and begin to trace the vein on his bicep.

 

Loki shifts underneath you. “It is too late. There is no room to love another.”

 

You startle. Pulling your head back, you look up at him. He’s already looking at you his cocky smile on his lips while his eyes reflect vulnerability.

 

You almost cry again, but instead, you shift your legs so you are sitting on his groin. You lean over him, kissing him the same way he kissed you. With love.

 

When you pull apart, his eyes are closed, his lips wet and swollen. “Make love to me, Loki.”

 

His eyes open, and lips pull back almost villainously, but he rolls you over all the same.  

 

xXxXx

 

“It’s a lovely day for a ride,” Vár acknowledges from ahead of you.

 

Loki, Vár, Thor and you have decided to take an outing to the grasslands for a day. The sun beats down over you from high above, blanketing your skin in an unsettling warmth. From next to her, Loki’s outfit shines gold in the sunlight. He doesn’t respond.

 

“Aye,” Thor responds when Loki stays silent. He shakes his head at his brother’s back, likely trying to telepathically plead his brother to be cordial.

 

When Thor looks at you in the same fashion, you frown. Clearly, he wants you to say something to diffuse the situation. You rub a tense spot on your shoulder, thankful that you had enough sense to dress in a halter gown given the odd heat wave that’s swept across Asgard.

 

It is, after all, the first time Loki and Vár have been out together since their engagement announcement. “It’s a bit hot,” you say, “But it is lovely to be outside the castle walls.”

 

“Far too hot,” Loki agrees in a mumbling voice.

 

You frown, hoping that Loki is okay. He is affected by hot weather, his Jotunn heritage makes him overheat easily and today is steaming.

 

“Oh,” Vár whispers, though you can hear her perfectly. You try to fight the jealousy when she guides her house closer to Loki’s. “Would you prefer to head back? I do not wish for you to be uncomfortable.”

 

Loki looks at her, the frown on his face lifts slightly and his tense body slumps.

 

“He’ll be fine,” you call out for him.

 

When he turns his head, the scowl back on his face, you lift an eyebrow: _Be nice._

 

His eyes darken slightly, before his lips pull back into a shameless grin: _Or what?_

 

“If I expire in this heat, sister, you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

 

“We wouldn’t be so lucky,” you tease.

 

He laughs, shaking his head as he turns back to Vár. “She is truly awful. How are you friends with such a creature?”

 

Vár giggles and tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Sometimes, I cannot understand it myself.”

 

You playfully pout when the two look back at you. Loki’s eyes briefly fall to your lips before scanning back to your eyes.

 

“I think she’s lovely,” Thor interrupts from next to you.

 

When you look over at him, his bronze skin and pale hair are so bright that you nearly squint. He looks like a statue of perfection on a towering steed. He winks at you, smirking spiritedly.  You tightly smile back, anxiety bubbling in your stomach.

 

“You have to think that, brother, she is your wife.”

 

You wipe your hand across your forehead as a beat of sweat begins to trickle down. With a swing of your head, you turn to pin a glare to Loki. Except when you do, your vision swims and blurs. Heat flashes and nausea swells in your stomach, spreading.

 

“Are you alright?”  Thor asks from next to you, he reaches for the reins of your horse that you must have dropped in your dizzy spell.

 

You rapidly blink, trying to normalize your vision “I’m fine. I believe the heat just got to me.”

 

Loki turns his horse around waits for you and Thor to catch up with him. Though he remains stoic, you can read the concern etched across his forehead. He produces a small vat of water in his hand, the condensation of the cool liquid drips down the side of the container and when you grasp it in your hand, your mouth instantly dries.

 

Dehydration must be the culprit.

 

You see Vár from the corner of your eye, watching you carefully as you take a swig from the container. Her blue eyes keep darting back and forth between the brothers and you. She bites her lips as you continue to gulp until the cask is empty. You lick your lips, satiated and body cooling.

 

“Thank you, Loki.” You say as you hand the container back to him.

 

He nods his head, eyes roving over your face as if looking for any fault. His fingers caress yours sending an electric shock through you. It makes your heart skip a beat. It always does when he touches you. Like it’s new, and home, and dangerous.

 

He nods, the cup disappearing, as he sends it back to wherever he produced it from.

 

“Quite useful, brother,” Thor nods to his hands. Loki rolls his eyes at Thor, shifting his horse away from you. Thor then reaches his hand out and grasps your bare shoulder. His hot touch makes your stomach roll again. He’s always so warm and in this heat, it’s the last thing you want. “Are you sure you are well enough to continue.”

 

You shake your head and try to placate him, “I’m _fine._ ” You stress the word for his own peace of mind. Your husband nods and his hand falls from your skin, thankfully before you shrug him off of you.

 

From behind, Loki calls out, “Perhaps we should find a shady place to rest for a bit. I’m famished as it is.”

 

You agree sheepishly, longing to just rest for a moment.

 

“I would like that,” you say pointedly to Thor.

 

He nods, agreeing, and tells of a shady spot in the distance. As you and Thor begin to trek towards the spot, the other two stay behind.

 

In the distance, you notice an ancient tree, with blooming, spidery branches that billow in the breeze. Thor begins to gallop ahead of the group to prepare the spot as you trail leisurely in his wake. From behind you, you can hear Loki and Vár speaking in almost hushed tones.

 

They quiet for a moment, a stall in conversation that seems a bit too awkward. Until Vár notes in an even quieter tone. You have to strain your ears to hear her, paying too close attention than is healthy to them. “You’re quite attentive to the Princess, your highness.”

 

Loki’s quiet for a long time. You almost think he didn’t hear her, or that he’s purposefully ignoring her. Until he responds in a gruff tone, “Someone has to be.”

 

xXxXx

 

Arms slither around your waist. You scowl, trying to clasp your earrings as Loki begins to pepper kisses in the crook of your neck.

 

He really needs to stop coming to your room before dinner. As it is, you almost always enter together, it’s odd that none have said anything.

 

“Let’s skip dinner,” Loki suggests, grasping the fabric of your dress in his large hands.

 

“It would be too obvious,” you shake your head.

 

“No,” he disagrees against your skin, kissing paths up and down your neck. “You could be ill and I will simply be uncouth.”

 

You almost smile. Instead, you tilt your head, giving Loki better access to your skin. “Your fiancée is already suspicious enough.”

 

Loki pulls back, pausing his kisses. “Not everyone is as thick as Thor.”

 

“Loki,” you reprimand.

 

He finally pulls back with a chuckle and kisses your hair. Then he walks over to the bar near your vanity. As he pours himself a glass and takes a sip, he raises both eyebrows. “Were we not stating truths?”

 

“We need to be careful with her. She can read lies on people, Loki.”

 

“Good thing I am a God of Lies.”

 

“You may be, but I am not.”

 

Loki grunts as he downs the drink in his hand as an answer.

 

Just when he opens his mouth to likely dispute your statement, or try to sidetrack you, a knock resounds from your chamber’s door.

 

“Hide,” you order, giving yourself one last glance in the mirror before turning around. When you reach the door, you turn around to him, noting that he is still standing in plain sight.

 

“Now,” you whisper harshly, eyes venomous for a moment.

 

He raises one eyebrow and smirks. He likes making you angry. It’s very annoying. Then, he disappears into his seidr, you wait for a moment, calming yourself and open the door.

 

Your heart stutters when you see your husband at your entrance. “Thor,” you greet, hand remaining on the doorknob.

 

His joyful voice rings out, “Is there someone here?”

 

“No,” you shake your head, looking behind you to make sure, Loki has remained hidden. He has. Still, you remain in the doorway, refusing to allow Thor to eter.

 

“Apologies, I thought I heard voices.”

 

Your heart skips a beat at his words. “No one is here. I was simply speaking to myself.”

 

Thor dips his head in understanding, “I thought I would walk you to dinner.”

 

Your heart skips a beat as you stutter out a breath. “I’m afraid, I’m not ready.”

 

“I don’t mind waiting,” he offers.

 

“I’ll join you shortly. There are some matters I need to attend to prior to dinner.”

 

The eyebrows on his forehead shoot up, “What kind of matters?”

 

Your mouth dries as you try to think of a lie other than _your brother._ “Feminine… matters.” You state, as if it would explain everything.

 

His eyes light in understanding, “Is that why you were ill earlier?”

 

You don’t know why the thought of Thor knowing your intimate body functions embarrasses you. He’s known them for some time. “No, I am simply preparing for it.”

 

“Of course, I apologize. That was not proper of me to assume such things.”

 

“It’s fine,” you dismiss with a smile as Thor’s head hangs. You reach out for his hand assuredly, not wanting him to be dejected. “I will see you at dinner,” you say as you drop his hand and begin to close the door.

 

“I was hoping,” he begins, making you pause. “I could see you tonight.”

 

Your pulse begins to race, your stomach begins to flip, your head aches. “I will see you at dinner.”

 

He grunts, running a hand through his long, sandy locks. “To be clear, that is not my intentions.”

 

It seems that your marriage has finally caught up with you.

 

“I…” you pause, licking your lips. “I will see you at dinner.”

 

Then you close the door and fall against it as your heart races.

 

Loki appears then, “We could always poison him.”

 

You glare at him, an awful energy wafting through you and pinning him with a glare.

 

He smiles as he walks over to you and presses you against the door. “Feminine matters?” He asks against your lips as he presses his hips to yours. “Anything I can help with?” He arches an eyebrow as he begins to trace the valley of your breasts. “Perhaps I should kneel for my queen to show _my_ intentions.”

 

You tilt your head back as Loki begins to kiss your chest.

 

A dangerous lightheaded feeling crawls over you, it’s not an aroused feeling from his lips. It’s something else that frantically bursts your heart. A hazardous sort of feeling that spreads from limb to limb. And your breath stalls in your lungs, even as you keep panting, trying to feed your body with oxygen. Terror. You can’t breathe. And then your vision begins to blur again as you try to focus on Loki.

 

Loki.

 

You clasp his shoulder, digging your nails into his skin as hard as possible. He pulls back suddenly looking at you with concern.

 

His hands trace over your cheeks, pressing your skin. You can feel sweat seep from your hairline.

 

“You’re cold,” he states, eyes widening as your chest continues to heave for breath.

 

“I feel hot,” you manage to stutter through gasps of air. You try to pull your corset.

 

 With a wave of your hand, Loki manages to undo your dress, leaving you in a shift. But it doesn’t help. Your vision begins to glaze over and dull into a blur.

 

You know that your demeaner must be one of pure fear. You can feel your cells begin to starve, you feel as you did earlier. Your eyes widen, clawing at your chest trying to breathe.

 

The last thing you see is Loki’s terrified gaze honed in on yours.

 

xXxXx

Thank you for all the continued love and support. You all mean so much to me. 

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	8. I'm a mess, but I'm the mess that you wanted

_Beep._

_Beep._

 

A rhythmic _beep_.

 

That’s all you hear.

 

The high and poignant pitch is far too familiar, it tells you exactly where you are.

 

The Healer’s Forge. You can smell it in the air, the stale, bitter scent of cleanliness.

 

After a second, you open your eyes, but everything is blurred. Startling bright hues of cream and white overwhelm your vision. You blink rapidly, trying to focus your gaze on anything in front of you, but it remains cloudy.

 

You’re in a private antechamber of the castle's otherwise large healing wing. No healers are around, though you are encased in a swirling, orange seidr.

 

Why are you here?

 

You think of the last thing you can remember, letting the last few moments replay in your head.

 

Thor came to visit you as you were getting dressed for dinner. He tried to reconcile, again, tried entering into your room, with honeyed words and a kind demeanor. You shut him out.  Closed the door and turned around.

 

And Loki.

 

Loki was there. Your heart begins to panic when you think of him pressed against you, the fear outwardly on his face.

 

His slack jaw, round eyes as he watched you struggle for air.

 

Finally, you turn your head, trying to look around.

 

That’s when you see him, sleeping next to your side with a worn, tired face.

 

As if sensing you were waking, Thor opens his blue eyes. His face is grim, lips turned down in a way you’ve never seen him express.

 

He looks burdened. Heavy with some type of guilt. “You’re awake.”

 

“What happened?” You ask, terrified to find out what he knows.

 

Thor takes a moment to answer, “You collapsed.”  


He pauses as if carefully deciding his next words. Then, he says your name in a whisper. It says more than any of his words could: fear, doubt, guilt, concern.

 

Emotions that Thor is not best at expressing.  

 

And just when he opens his mouth to speak more, the entrance to the Forge opens. Lady Eir the royal healer, walks in. She smiles tightly, “You’re awake.”

 

You lick your lips, “I am.”

 

She nods and goes over to the seidr that is encasing you. She dips her fingers into it, pinching it and spreading out strands as if reading your bodily statistics.

 

“How are you feeling?” She asks the question without looking at you and instead reads the lines that disrupt the otherwise empty air.

 

“Confused,” you joke with a slight smile. “I’m sure I will be fine. This was all too much.”

 

Eir tilts her head, side-eyeing you. She moves the air and the seidr transforms into an exact replica of your body: your veins, your pulse. It moves and follows what is happening inside of you. She touches your leg then, her seidr pumping into you, which she’s able to watch through the body above you.

 

You can feel her healing you, her power travels from limb to limb around your form, before landing on your lower stomach.

 

Eir sighs, almost sadly.

 

Then she taps the inner side of your foot in an almost soothing fashion.

 

“I’m happy to say, my lady, you are not ill,” she speaks in a particularly monotone voice.

 

“What do you mean, she is not ill?” Thor interrupts suddenly “I saw her, she wasn’t breathing, her skin was slick with a cold sweat.”

 

You look at him. Was he the one who brought you here? Did Loki go and get him?

 

You have far too many questions and no way to ask them without condemning yourself.

 

So, you try and appease Thor, “I told you, I’m fine. It was likely just exhaustion from the ride earlier.”

 

Thor looks grave, though. Graver than he has looked in a long time.

 

Eir releases her seidr and helps you sit up in the bed. You fidget with the covers, carefully rearrange them to maintain some type of modesty. “I was unaware that have Jötunn heritage, my Lady.”

 

 You stop fiddling, then, snapping your gaze to look at Eir. Her face is curious as she peers at you as if trying to read your mind. Though, that is impossible. Telepathy is a fictitious account of magic that is idolized on Midgard.

 

So, you return her stare and try to swallow the fear that is definitely blistering to a boil inside of you.

 

You aren’t Jötunn. You know that. There’s no history of it, even if your mother was from Vanaheim where Jötunn heritage is accepted, the blood in her would have been minuscule.

 

“That’s because she’s not,” Thor answers for you in near detest. As if a Prince of Asgard would marry someone who was part Frost-Giant.

 

You blink slowly, fluttering your eyes to the blanket covering your form. It’s white.  

 

“Well, her body has entered into a cytosis.”  

 

You fist the sheet in your hand, trying to keep yourself calm, to still your body. To not panic.

 

But it’s there, as your heart races. You nibble on your bottom lip, fighting back a panicking sorrow that is about to erupt from your body.

 

“What does that mean?” You ask quietly, afraid of her answer.

 

“It’s common with Jötunn fetuses,” she answers. “Your body needs to maintain its warmth, but you are carrying something that needs near-freezing temperatures to grow. Your cells try to regulate your outward temperatures while preparing your womb for birth. It’s a fascinating process.”

 

Your mouth instantly dries. Full, fledged panic rises inside you. It’s sickening. Bile rises up your throat and you swallow it back, your stomach lurching with it.

 

“Birth?” Thor asks, his voice gruff. His tone deep from understanding.

 

You are pregnant?

 

That can’t be possible.

 

Finally, you gag, leaning over the bed and releasing the contents of your empty stomach.

 

Yellow bile comes up tasting like iron.

 

Immediately, Eir is there, pulling back your hair from your face so it doesn’t stick, and places a pale under your face.

 

You can’t remember the last time you were ill.

 

“You said it was impossible,” Thor accuses his voice rising from disbelief to shock. “You said she couldn’t be with child.”

 

“I said it was fundamentally impossible.” Eir argues, “That your compatibility would make it difficult to conceive.”  

 

“Compatibility! What does that even mean?”

 

You heave again, the thick sickness coming up as your stomach churns from the rising quarrel.

 

“That at times, matches between two people are not meant to be.”

 

 Finally, Thor releases a grunt, driving his hand into the wall next to him.

 

You’ve never been so scared in your life. Your body begins to quiver from the anxiety, the fear.

 

“Thus, you were wrong,” Thor’s voice rises again. “Perhaps, your position needs to be reevaluated. Perhaps, you are not cut out to be the Royal Healer. I have never heard of such a thing. Married couples being incompatible to produce offspring.”

 

“It’s you!” she finally exclaims, likely propelled by his suddenly violent, cruel expression. “ _You_ should not be able to have children.”

 

And then it is quiet.

 

You hear Thor’s labored breathing. Your own retching. Eir’s pants.

 

“Get out,” he advises in a low, nearly dark voice.

 

Eir stills with her hands rooted in your hair. Then they drop and she stands from your bed making her way out of the room.

 

“Eir, if you wish to remain in Asgard,” Thor begins, “I would advise that you not speak a word of this to anyone -- my father, my mother, my wife and me.”

 

The healer hesitates at the door, a glint of recognition in her stormy eyes before she concedes. “As you wish.”

 

Then, she exits.  

 

You continue to heave, even as Eir’s retreating form leaves the room with a hollow feeling. Thor remains standing, staring blankly at the door. His face is hard, his lips turned down. He looks so much like Odin, you realize. Serious. Gone are the boyish features that had sparked your interest, the excitement in his blue eyes that shone.

 

Finally, you calm down, reveling in the silence. When you look at Thor, you see he’s turned to glance out the window. His arms are crossed as he studies Asgard’s grounds.  

 

“Thor,” you hesitate, trailing off. You wait for his violence to erupt, for him to accuse the only possible outcome of it.

 

Instead, he speaks in such a measured, solemn tone that you need to process his words. “I suppose this is my fault.”

 

“It’s not,” you say, biting your lip and holding back the millions of emotions swirling inside of you. With that, you let your eyes fall to the ground. His feet turn around as you utter, “It is mine. I am to blame.”

 

When you feel his hand on your chin, you know something is different.

 

He’s not warm.

 

In fact, it could be said he’s cold. Frigid temperatures.

 

You quickly glance up, holding you're inhale and daring to not feel relief.

 

When you see black hair, and seafoam eyes, and high, pale cheekbones, you release a breath.

 

“Loki?” you speak in a question. Part of you believes you're actually going crazy. He smiles sadly, his eyes roving over your form as if memorizing every detail.

 

You’re so angry at him. So vehemently riled, and still, his mere presence sends tranquility through you.

 

The panic that made you ill, the angst that made your heart stutter, could have destroyed you. But now, your heart is still, your emotions balanced. You can’t actually be mad at him, not when he’s looking at you like a precious keepsake.

 

“I am… so sorry.”

 

You grasp his hand on your cheek, covering his blessedly cool touch. “It was my fault.” Memories drift into your head like mosaic glass, piecing together a story that could not end well. “I should have just drunk the potion anyway.”

 

“Yes,” Loki agrees, making your gaze harden for a brief moment. “You should have. It was incredibly foolish not to.”

 

Your mouth falls open at his candid demeanor. “You could have made me.”

 

“Clearly, you have a different understanding of your determination.”

 

You realize he is joking, but his words make you frown. “You brought me here?” You finally ask the question that has been itching inside of you. When Loki peels his hand away, dropping to caress your neck, you let your hand return to your lap and dig into the blankets.

 

“Of course, I did,” Loki utters the words, insulted at your insinuation that he wouldn’t. “I thought you were dying. I had no idea what to do. You were out for almost two hours.”

 

You realize, then, how scared he must have been. You were terrified and you did not have to deal with the aftermath of your catatonic state. You reach your hand for him on the bed. “I love you.”

 

He glances down at your hand, before peering back to your eyes.

 

“I have to go.” He stands from the bed and glances around himself as if searching for something.  

 

Your heart begins to race again, like him being away is the worst thought to happen. “Where are you going?”

 

“To fix this.”

 

“How?”

 

Loki merely shakes his head, refusing to answer. Instead, he transforms back into Thor and strides out of the room, not spearing you another glance.

 

You want to yell after him, you want to call him back to your side, to have him hold you and keep you safe. But if you said his name, it’d mean something else. And you refuse to damn yourself even more than you already have.

 

Loki is smart, incredibly cunning. Out of anyone, he’ll find a solution to this. You just need to give him time to find it.

 

You long to stand from the bed and get your footing underneath you, but you find you don’t have the energy. Instead, you lift your hand and look at it, trying to see if anything appears different.

 

But it is not, you’re the same as you were. There isn’t a smidge of cerulean skin in sight. It is foolish of you to believe you are showing outward signs of your pregnancy. You press the back of your hand against your head, but it feels no hotter or colder than normal. It feels like you.

 

So, you do the unthinkable. Your hand traces down your chest and over your stomach, caressing your lower belly. You tap on it, trying to see if anything feels abnormal. But it’s not. It’s the same as it always has been. Perhaps Eir is wrong.  

 

Eir could be many things, but you doubt she is wrong. She’s the best healer in all of Asgard.

  
For unearthing possibly life ruining news, you realize that Loki was oddly calm. Even though a part of your brain is stuck on despair and doom, you can’t help but panic about the tiny life inside of you. The tiny Speck.

 

How do you feel of such a thing? Of being a mother. Of growing a child. 

 

A year ago, you were prepared for a baby with Thor. You had a husband to stand with you through it. Now, there is no way that your marriage could survive this betrayal.

 

Unless you make it seem like Thor’s. Could such a thing be possible? Surely, that would be the first solution Loki would land on too? Right?

  

The anxiety, the fear, the confusion from earlier seeps away. You think of a little Loki inside you, and it warms your heart.

 

Regardless of what is to happen to you. To your marriage, your future. You would love this child, you would protect it with your life.

 

You smile sadly, thinking of the possibilities. Of Loki watching his child swell in your body. Imagining him by your side when it takes its first breath. Picturing him as a father, teaching the child seidr, sparring, and manners before smothering the babe with all types of treats. You have no doubt that Loki would be the pushover. You, the disciplinarian.

 

You are so lost in your daydreams that you barely hear him return.

 

When Loki enters, it’s nearly midnight. He storms in as himself though, oddly enough. As if unconcerned to be seen entering your room at such a late hour.

 

You tell him as such.

 

“No one could see me.”

 

Oh.

 

You nod. Okay.

 

He gingerly perches on the edge of his bed and conjures a small lilac vial. He grasps it, looking at it for one moment with deeply turned lips.

 

You wait for him to speak, but, he stares at you as if planning what to say. His mouth opens and closes a few times, very slightly. But, after three moments, he lets his eyes rove down your form and settle on your stomach. They stay there as if studying each time, it moves with one of your breaths. You refuse to speak first. If he has something to say, has something to express, he needs to say it without prompting. He needs to tell you how he feels.

 

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t uttered a positive or negative statement about this.

 

But, like always, Loki wins the little game you set in your mind.

 

You say his name.

 

His eyes, gently work their way to your eyes. Finally, he lifts the vial back up and puts it into your hand, clasping your fingers around the glass.

 

“What is it?” You ask, opening the top of the container and sniffing it. The fragrance smells like potent flowers, it burns your nostrils, but the color is beautiful. Calming.

 

Loki doesn’t answer you though, instead, his gaze has fallen back to your middle. You can feel it there, caressing your form as if it is the greatest and worst thing to ever happen to him.

 

 You kind of understand it though.

 

But his silence is unnerving. You close the crystal container, letting it rest in your palm until he answers.

 

He doesn’t.

 

He stays like that for a few moments.

 

“ _What_ is it?” You ask again, louder, visibly angrier. You have a feeling after all. Nothing healthy, nothing satisfying could ever smell so repugnant. But, he wouldn’t do that. Right? Loki would _never_ think of such a solution as _that._

 

Right?

 

Finally, he peers at you, coldly. “It will take care of the problem.”

 

Take care of the problem?

 

No. You refuse to believe him. “What does that mean?”

 

“It means that you will not need to worry after drinking that.”

 

You shut your mouth instantly.

 

The silence in the room is so loud, so melancholy, that you almost cry. But you don’t, because, enraged is another word to describe it.  

 

“You would kill our baby?”

 

Loki stands, facing away from you. His body is rigid, pained, tense. “Do not act as if there is another solution.”

 

You lick your chapped lips, thinking of all the possible explanations that you thought of earlier that evening. “We could tell Odin.”

 

“He would kill the child, then you.”

 

“We could tell Thor. Tell him this time I made the mistake. He’d understand.”

 

“He would tell Odin, who would kill the child, then you.”

 

“We could run away.”

 

“Odin would find us, kill the child, then you.”

 

You glower at his back, if you could laugh, you would. Instead, your temper is flush and your body cold again. It’s as if the little Speck inside you is so attuned to your emotions it’s propelling your body with it.

 

Finally, you think of that dark solution.

 

“I could make Thor think it is his.”

 

“The child will come out Jötunn.” Finally, Loki turns, his Asgardian form gleaming in the pale moonlight from the windows. He’s so beautiful, he takes your breath away.

 

Speck does a little flip. You understand what it's thinking. Yes, _Daddy_  is basically perfect.

 

“You’re being too rational,” you speak plainly, “It’s making me angry.” You thought he’d smile, smirk, chuckle. Anything.

 

But, Loki doesn’t acknowledge your words, instead, his frown gets impossibly deeper. “There is no solution. There is no way to _disguise_ th-” he stops short.

 

Then, he barges forward, sitting on the edge of the bed again and takes both of your hands in his. Loki kisses them, his cool lips pressing against your heated skin.

 

You glare at him, somehow knowing that you are about to hate his next suggestion.  

 

“If the child came out appearing Asgardian, none would be wiser.”

 

Your eyebrows contort across your forehead, lips purse in thought. “I don’t understand.”

 

“We can make Thor think it is his and I can glamor the child’s appearance so he will not look Asgardian.”

 

Loki’s eyes brim with an excitement that has not been there. The light in his green eyes sparkle against the harsh light of the room. It’s like he is actually happy of the thought. Happy to disguise his child.

 

Hide its true form from the world.

 

And for some reason, for some unexpectedly peculiar reason, this makes you see red.

 

Loki should know better than anyone what misleading a child can do to it. How making Speck appear as something else only to learn of his true heritage, later on, would hurt him.

 

It nearly killed Loki. You will not be complacent in that.

 

Loki was told he was Asgardian his whole life, told that he was in line for the throne. Told that he was ordinary. And, when the truth slithered out that he was Jötunn… all of Asgard nearly turned their backs. Loki nearly left, ashamed at having been lied to his whole life. Embarrassed to be something _other_ than Asgardian.

 

Well, you refuse to let that happen. You’d rather die than let Speck go through that.

 

You speak heavily, weighted with the tiny idea that Loki is trying to work through. “You would condemn our child to your fate. To what you went through?”

 

Loki pauses, rearing his head back and glancing at you down his long nose, recognizing your reaction from your voice. “It is better than him being dead.”

 

“I will not let him die.”

 

Loki’s voice rises with yours, “You act as if you’d be around to see him.”

 

“I will not do that to our child!” You shout back, tired of him spewing on about your death. “He’s perfect, he’ll be the most perfect thing to ever be created.”

 

“They will _kill_ you,” Loki snarls slower.  "I am trying to protect you. That is my number one priority." 

 

Without thinking, you hurl the vial in your hand across the room. It crashes with a high-pitched clang, shattering into a thousand pieces when it hits the wall.

 

Your silent, heaving for breath.

 

Then finally, you growl, “Get out.”  

 

And, for some reason, he does.

 

He leaves you alone with heaving breaths, beeping seidr, and your tears.  

 

* * *

 

It seems  _no one_ saw that coming. ;) 

The response to this story has been astounding.

The comments from the last chapter kept me going when I thought I couldn't go on. Really, thank you to everyone.

You're the real MVPs of this story. Thank you, everyone. <3

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	9. you said there was nothing in the world that could stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. I hope this chapter does not let you down. Though it's not nearly where I'd like it to be, I hope you can enjoy it all the same.

On the thirteenth day of every month, Odin holds a council hearing in his Throne room where people can raise concerns.

 

The entrance to the Throne room is tall. Intimidating. It’s a large expanse of wood, stone, and gold. 

 

When you enter, hundreds are there - so many more people are in attendance than usual. And though it’s unusual… though it sends an ominous sense of dread through you that makes you shiver, you step inside.

 

You move your hand over your flat stomach, sending a silent prayer into it, to Speck. What you’re about to do is reckless, but it’s the only way out of the mess you’ve constructed.

 

An aged councilman stands in front of the throne, droning on about taxes and new policies, clearly disturbed by something. But, when he quiets, Odin’s voice rings out, politely dismissing the current criticism.

 

“As you wish, Allfather,” the councilman bows stiffly, turning on his heel and returning to the side of the throne room where a large gaggle stands to watch the proceedings.

 

Then, there is a beat of silence, as people begin to still.

 

“Are there any other grievances?” When no one speaks, your stomach does a little flip.

 

So, you call from the back of the room, “If I may, Allfather.”

 

Odin’s one good eye studies you, squinting in surprise as you step forward. You stand just in front of the dais his throne sits on.

 

Your eyes scan the platform, as you take a second to center yourself. You see Thor and Loki flanking either side of their father, perched like two opposing birds. Frigga stands just behind them, watching everything with a knowing glint in her eye. The type of glint only a mother can have.

 

And still, your heart flutters with what you’re about to say. With what you’re about to admit. Are you really going to announce to all of Asgard what you have done? For all to interpret, to know, and judge as if they could understand the truth behind your actions. They’d spurn, and burn, and exclaim for your head.

 

But, if you do get burned, at least you were electrified. At least you had brief moments of happiness the past year. At least you got to know love. True, unbridled, flaming love.

 

When the Allfather nods, you curtsey and begin.

 

“I have done a great disservice to the throne.”

 

Loki’s face hardens, robbing you of your resolve. His lips purse, eyes narrow, and jaw tilts slightly up like he is trying to intimidate you into subordination.

_Stop this now, insolent girl._

 

Thor’s hand fists at his side, like he too knows what you are doing and about to admit. Like he already knows.

 

Both of them seem to know where this is headed, what you’re about to do, say, as if they have already seen it. You take a moment to look at Thor, at his round cerulean eyes and plump lips. Oh, how simpler things would have been if you’d never learned of his infidelity if he wasn’t so forthcoming and honest. So true.

 

Why did he have to be so  _good_?

 

You take in a steely breath and continue simply, “I have been unfaithful in my marriage. In doing so, I have fallen in love with another and I carry his child.”

 

A few gasps are taken throughout the room. Odin holds up one hand, quieting the whispers and staggering discontent that has spread.

 

From the corner of your eye, you watch Loki. He shakes his head in disbelief the corners of his mouth pulling down at the edges. And fear. Fear in his eyes as they dart between his father and you.

 

_What have you done?_

You don’t know the answer to that.

 

What you do know, is that Odin’s personal guards have taken three sly steps closer.

 

“You have betrayed the throne of Asgard and spoken about it so plainly,” he announces. “Do you deny that adultery is as terrible a crime as treason. That what you have done has poisoned the throne itself?”

 

You stand taller, letting your hand cover your stomach. “I do not deny it,” you acknowledge. “I know I have done wrong, all I ask is for an annulment from my marriage, so I can marry who I truly love: Prince Loki.”

 

All eyes in the room turn to the dark Price, watching him. He says nothing, does nothing.

 

“All you ask?” Odin’s voice is liquid metal. Piping hot and pouring like acid on the floor, smoking into a suffocating, sulfuric air. “Loki,  _son_ , do you have anything you would wish to say?”

 

Loki pauses for a moment, lifting one eyebrow at you. “I know not what to say.”

 

“Do you deny it?” Odin asks, keeping his eye on you.

 

“I do not,” he speaks. Slight whispers embroider the room. “She seduced me like a vamp in the night. A gentleman would never speak of a lady in such a way, but she is no lady.”

 

Whispers grow louder. “Do you still wish for an annulment?” Odin asks you, gravely, seemingly unsurprised.

 

You square your body, unable to fully comprehend what is happening as you barricade your thoughts to stare at the King of Asgard and Protector of the Nine Realms. “Yes.”

 

“Then, an annulment you will get.” He turns his head, “Guards, seize the traitor before you.”

 

And they do, swiftly.

 

Two grab your arms and force you to your knees. Their fingers dig into your skin, bruising you most callously. The roar and cheers of the room are deafening, vile even. Then, Odin roars above it, the crowd laughs, and there is a block of wood put just before you, grooved for a neck. An executioners block?

 

What is this madness? It’s spiraling, so far from where you thought the bottom was.

 

Then two guards hold down your body. No one speaks, Loki doesn’t interject, nor Thor. Nor Frigga. No one.

 

You hear the sheathing of a sword and then all is black.

 

xXxXx

 

You wake up with a gasp, hand grasping your neck before you drop them to press against your stomach. You will away the cobwebs of the lingering nightmare.

 

Heart racing and stomach-churning, your breath heaves with adrenaline and your shoulders tremble. It felt so real. 

 

You can still feel the fingers digging into your arms, can still see the disgust shining in the light of everyone’s eyes. Hot tears begin to trail down your cheek. You wipe them away, as you look around the dim room.

 

_She seduced me in the most unbecoming way._

 

It was just a dream, a nightmare.

 

Just  _another_ nightmare.

 

You’re fine.

 

And although you’re fine, in the deepest part of you, you can now admit that Loki was right. They  _will_ kill you.

 

But you can’t kill Speck to save yourself, you won’t. You press your hand harsher against your stomach, as your pulse finally decides to calm down.

 

When ready, you sigh as you push the covers off of your body and stand from the bed like a ghost. You pace to the mirror near your private vanity and in the poor lighting of the room, you finally  _see_ yourself.

 

Your hair is a mess and underneath your eyes are large, dark circles. Your skin is sickly, ill-looking and caved around the bones.

 

It’s been nearly two fortnights since your discovery; since your argument with Loki. Two fortnights since you have been plagued with nightmare after nightmare. If you didn’t know better, you would think that Loki was poisoning your conscious to concoct these images when you enter a deep sleep.

 

But the sleep is never deep. And the dreams are always twisting like a snake, coiling around your rationality and changing each outcome. Sometimes you tell the truth, sometimes you hide it. Sometimes you leave Asgard, ride off on your own into a bright sunset.

 

You’re disgusted with your reflection, hating it. Wanting it to change back to what you used to look like: innocent, clean. Now you’re a shell. But at least now, you have something to live for, something to fight for. Someone. And this is usually how your nightly, soliloquy begins on what to do about Speck.

 

And usually, it ends with you retreating back to bed, trying to find a comforting thought to rest on.

 

And usually, there is none.

 

But, tonight, there’s a knock at the door.

 

xXxXx

 

The first time you saw Loki after your  _incident_ (as you have begun to call your time in the healer's wing) he had his attention locked to Vár, who had begun to join the intimate family dinners.

 

Not that you could blame him. To his family and the Nine Realms, he was promised to her. Engaged.

 

It took everything in you to not take your untouched goblet and throw it at his chiseled face.

 

The flash of anger inside you was most unbecoming and disastrous.

 

You were so prepared for an argument, for a fight between you two to explode. All the passions you’ve heard of in sonnets and ballads have spoken of a tumultuous love brought to everyone’s attention at the climax of the story. One that is volatile and refuses to bow. One that erupts until it is submissive and cordial and simple.

 

But, in truth, the passion you’ve felt is not combative, nor cruel, it’s a whimpering, persistent mess. And it’s growing so old.

 

When Vár smiles at Loki, a true, dimpled, pure smile, and Loki returns with one of his own, you want to die inside. And you’re sure that everyone can see your heartbreak.

 

It’s ironic, the full cycle your life has brought you.

 

Thor cheating on you. You betraying Thor. Loki leaving you.

 

It seems that they all leave in the end.

 

You want to die.

 

And then Loki laughs, his head thrown back at something Vár said. While Frigga and Odin proudly watch them from the head of the table, you sink in your seat, suddenly overcome with nausea. 

 

You stopped going to dinners after that.

 

xXxXx

 

Your heart plummets and pulse spikes when you open the door.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Loki is propped against the door, appearing almost as haunted as you are. His skin is pallid, the area around his eyes is sunken.

 

He staggers to his feet and inhales deeply, puffing out his chest in a poor attempt of bravado. “Why do you think?”

 

You frown at his disheveled appearance. “Are you drunk?”

 

“Would you prefer it if I was?” Loki slurs, swaying back to lean one hand against the wall.

 

You tense immediately at his words and ill appearance. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s sick, suffering.

 

But, you refuse to invite him in without his apology. His attention on you brings you back to the healing room. It transports you to the vile vial he tried to force down your throat. To when he tried to make you kill your child. To when he stormed out in anger leaving you uncomforted and alone.

 

“Are you just going to answer my questions with more questions?”

 

He sighs, palm pressing against the doorway to keep him upright. “It would be best to  _not do_ this out here.”

 

“Oh?” You retort quickly, hand fisting the doorknob. “What is  _this?_ ”

 

His eyes flash with life, narrowing and glinting in the palace’s low fire-light. “Invite me inside.”

 

“Why?”

 

Loki speaks confidently, much more confidently than he appears given that he’s kept one hand on the wall next to him. “Because you  _need_ me.”

 

“Yet you can barely stand outside my door.” You glare at him, waiting for him to say another word that contradicts you, but he doesn’t. The fact he’s here at all, says more than you’d like to admit.

 

He deflates at your assessment. “What would you like me to say then?”

 

“The truth would be a good place to start.”

 

His eyes fall to the ground, counting the stones beneath his feet. He opens his mouth, and for a moment you think he is going to be honest, but then he shuts it. When his eyes rake up your form, they’ve hardened again. “Invite me inside.”

 

You clench your teeth, knuckles white from their grip on the door. But you don’t speak. Instead, you thank Valhalla when you manage to stay standing under his intense scrutiny.

 

When you don’t respond, Loki finally falls against the stone like a puppet whose strings have been cut. It’s concerning, and you instantly reach out to catch him. He manages to steady himself between you and the wall, one of his hands grasping your shoulder, the other propped against the wall with his face in the crook of your neck.

 

“Please,” he whispers in a choked voice like a beggar. “Please forgive me.” And, unlike what you thought, Loki doesn’t smell of liquor.

 

He’s not drunk.

 

You swallow thickly and manage to drag him inside. Loki puts one foot in front of the other to help and, as soon as he’s over the threshold, he falls to his knees. Both of his long, lean arms circle your waist as he mumbles apologies against your stomach.

 

With the door still ajar and light from the hallway dancing into the room, the young prince of Asgard keels before you, begging for forgiveness. His tears paint your night-dress in firm strokes of regret and your cries roll down your cheeks.

 

When you manage to fall into bed together, fully clothed, you both finally fall into an effortless sleep.

 

At some point hours later, a shadow pirouettes past your chambers. It pauses there, glances inside, then closes your door.

 

xXxXx

 

You wake to Loki’s voice, his low raspy whispers covering your stomach.

 

A small smile pulls your lips up when you look down at him. Sensing your awareness, Loki glances up at you, his eyes clear, clever, and bright.

 

“What are you saying?” You ask, lifting yourself to your forearms to see him clearly.

 

“I’m conspiring with our son,” Loki says, turning back down to lay a hand against your womb and mumbling quietly.

 

You scoff, “A son? Not a daughter?”

 

“A son.” He assures you, “One that looks precisely like me.”

 

You frown, “But what if it’s a daughter that looks like me?”

 

Loki doesn’t respond to you, instead, he whispers loudly to your stomach, “Let the Norns be kind and forbid that.” 

 

 You swat his head, falling back onto the pillows.

 

Loki chuckles and kisses your lower belly. “In truth,” Loki begins climbing up your body so his eyes are level with yours. “I was telling him the story of a Prince and the love of his life. How the Norns destined them and forebode them at the same time.”

 

Loki traces your lips, his finger gliding down your neck, his eyes softly tracing your face. He eases his body to mold against your side, pushing himself up on his elbows.

 

“I’m unfamiliar with that tale,” you say.

 

Loki scoffs. When he begins the story, his voice becomes dramatic. “The Prince was an insolent boy. Insufferable really. All he cared of was himself and the mischief he could make. He knew he would never get the throne, for his brother was favored in all ways: by his father, by the people, by all the realms. For the brother had more brawn and warmth than the younger could muster. So, the younger Prince would do anything for the spotlight. He’d bed maidens, mock the court-”

 

“He sounds awful,” You tease with a glint in your eye, understanding now the story that Loki is spinning.

 

“Some would say.” Loki pins you a glare, making you smile. “He was the jester, as that was easier than being the unfavored.”

 

Your mouth dries at his admission. “Loki,” you softly say.

 

He pays you no mind though, he continues, tapping a finger on your chin. “But, the girl was something else.” Loki pauses, his hand tracing down your side. “She was beautiful, and patient, and good, and kind. Though she wore too many pastel dresses to be considered sophisticated.”

 

You grin then, remembering how you used to dress. “Did you rehearse this?”

 

Loki rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “The day she came to the Prince’s kingdom was the first day of Spring,” he says, your heart beginning to hammer in your chest. “ _She_ was like the first day of Spring-”

 

“You hate Spring,” you interject boldly.

 

Loki shushes you, pinching your side. “Please save all commentary for after the story.”

 

You giggle, shaking your head and gesturing for Loki to continue. Which he does.

 

“The girl was intelligent and quickly given a position as one of the Queen’s handmaidens. Many titled her The Introvert, though -- she hated the public frivolity of court and would use her wit to avoid public events. She was often sad. She traveled far from her home, leaving behind everyone she had known. The young Prince saw her cunning wit as a challenge. By any means, he would get into her lilac skirts. He left her enchanted trinkets and cheeky flowers that were laced with his scent.”

 

A bark of laughter escapes from you until Loki’s gaze dims. “But that summer, the young Prince’s true heritage was revealed. For he was not the King’s son. He was a war-hostage of the most hated race in all of the Nine Realms. He was a Prince, but he was the Prince of a dying, despised race. The young Prince did fowl things upon this discovery. He became violent and hostile.

 

“People were disgusted with him - they whispered about his cruel and evil demeanor. Tales grew taller and longer. He was demented, disfigured. Women used to race into his bed, but after the truth came out, the ran from it.” Loki’s voice lightens, like he’s trying to make it a joke, to lighten the mood. But it only makes your heart-ache.

 

“Then Fall came, and the older Prince was to find his wife by that Winter’s Fest. There was a tournament to mark a thousand years since the end of an Ancient War. The older Prince won, besting his younger,  _adopted_ brother. The true heir was decorated with all the admiration he always received. But the younger Prince couldn’t care. For the girl, the kind, sweet girl, was there. And she was still wearing lilac even during autumn, with flowers in her hair and sunrise in her eyes.

 

“She asked the young Prince to dance. He frowned at her in disdain, so his brother took her hand and whisked her away.

 

“That evening, she gave the young Prince a pin, one that he had previously given her. It was enchanted to play a song whenever the wearer grew melancholy. She told the prince ‘ _I believe your golden age is on the horizon. Sometimes the world can be ruthless for no reason.’_

“The young Prince fell in love with her then. But he could not condemn her to a life with him. For even if she would have him, though he was sure she would not consent, she would be despised. So, he said cruel words to her that made tears well in her eyes.”

 

A tear falls down your cheek, hearing him say everything was different than experiencing it. It was like seeing the truth from his perspective. 

 

“That winter, the girl became a Princess and married the older Prince - for he wooed her and honored her. The younger Prince was never more jealous of his brother. But he decided then he wouldn’t be cruel anymore. He would let her see him - the real him. And he would love her silently, and at times plainly. And slowly, the cruel, young Prince, just became a Prince again. The realm began to forget his heritage and they forgave him of his transgressions.

 

Then on the first day of Spring, the Princess came to the young Prince’s room. She was devastated and vengeful. She was betrayed by her husband, and so she begged for the young Prince to ruin her for all others. So, he did. He loved her fully and in a way no one ever had.”

 

Tears begin to roll down your face. You lift your hand and run your fingers through Loki’s hair. You scratch his scalp in the way that comforts him.

 

“If I had known, I would have been blunt: I loved you from the moment I saw you Loki Laufeyson.”

 

He leans down and kisses you. His lips are electric and whispering promises of the future.

 

“I love you more than I will ever love another,” he vows. “So, I beg you. Let me protect you -- do not make me lose you so soon after finding you.”

 

You realize now what he means. You turn your cheek and wipe away the tears. Then you shut your eyes as you press your hand to your stomach. It’s become a comforting habit to feel Speck, like you are protecting him with your touch. “I will not kill our baby,” you snap.

 

“I will not let you,” Loki vows.

 

You look at him from the corner of your eye to find he’s telling the truth.

 

Loki sighs, sucks in another breath, and tells his plan. “Let Thor think the child is his. Let our baby grow old and become Prince. I will love him and cherish him from afar. Do not condemn yourselves to death. Do not end our story so soon.”

 xXxXx

 

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	10. if I could dance with you again

 

_“We could leave,” He jokes lamely, his hands combing through your hair. “Run from our duties.”_

_“We could not.” You frown, pressing your naked torso closer to his._

_“One condition then,” he mutters, as he pushes you onto your back and tumbles between your thighs. “When we have our last kiss, make sure I know that it is.”_

_And you remember thinking: When you see him in hindsight, one day long from then, you will see him like this: tangled in a nest of naked limbs and you know he’ll see you the same way. When he leaves you or when you leave him, the memories will follow you both no mattered the shattered pieces you both may become._

xXxXx

 

“How could you want to touch me?”

 

Loki tilts your head to the side and dips to kiss your neck. His lips hover there smiling against you, then he nips, biting your skin between his sharp teeth. 

 

“Ow!” you dramatically exclaim with a smirk, swatting him away. “Stop that.”

 

He chuckles, standing to his full height, but keeps his hands on your waist. Sometimes, you forget just how tall he is, how overwhelming his shadow can be. It’s not a bad thing, just something that you don’t realize until your heads are stacked underneath each other. 

 

“How could I ever _not_ want to touch you?” He asks. You roll your eyes, running your hands through your hair to tame your unruly locks. “You are magnificent in every way possible. Your hips, your silhouette, your sk-” 

 

“Seriously, stop that,” you frown, unused to his compliments. 

 

“Why should I?”

 

“Because,” you sigh, processing your thoughts. “I’m about to…” you let your words hang in the air, before continuing, “and you're okay with it.”

 

Loki jerks his head, taken aback by your sudden serious demeanor. “You think I’m okay with this?”

 

“You seem it.” 

 

He spins you then, turning you deftly in his arms and leveling you with a glare so harsh it hurts.  

 

“I will never be okay with this, but it’s what has to be done.” He frowns, his hand coming up to caress your cheek, “You were never mine to have, and, perhaps,” he trails off. You swallow, nuzzling your cheek in his hand as he tries to figure out what to say to you. “And perhaps, after tonight you will no longer be mine, so I will take all I can.” 

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“I’m selfish,” he says suddenly. “You have a husband, who you love-“

 

“Loved,” you correct him.

 

“You have a history with him.”

 

“I have a history with _you_.”

 

He steps back, clearly frustrated. “You were angry when you came to me. I do not expect you to continue to actually want _this._ I’m a mon-” he pauses for a moment and shuts his eyes in exasperation. “I cannot expect you to stay here with me and when you return to him, you may remember why you married him.” 

 

“Not this again.” You step closer to him, “I am carrying your son. I am in love with you.” 

 

He shakes his head, clearly distraught. When Loki finally opens his eyes, he shatters your heart, “As you love him?” Your mouth falls open. He sighs, putting a finger against your lips before you can begin to fight with him. “I have loved you for longer than I care to admit. I love you enough to let you go, surely you must realize that all I want is what is best for you.” 

 

A tear slips down your cheeks. There’s so much you could say, so much you could argue, it’d be easy to. But - it would fall on deaf ears. The only way is to show him. Loki’s always been a visible learner. 

 

You pucker your lips, kissing his fingers that remain against them. He then lets his hand fall, looking at you carefully and guarded. You clasp your hands on his shoulders and stand on your toes, reaching his lips with strained effort. Then you kiss him. Softly. 

 

When you pull away you step around him. “I’ll see you tonight,” you promise. 

 

xXxXx

 

You don’t cry when you leave your room, or when you tread down the hallway. You swallow the fear that is forming an intricate pit in your stomach and continue on traveling swiftly from your rooms to his. 

 

It’s difficult to remember the last time you were in Thor’s rooms. You couldn’t if you tried; it was likely nothing special, you were probably trying to conceive. At the time, you couldn’t have known it’d be the last time you’d be underneath him. 

 

You have a plan for tonight, though. You will control him, perhaps you’ll get him drunk first, let him drink himself full and spend himself. He’s quicker and easier to please that way. 

 

His door is exactly how you remember, but you knock instead of just entering as you would have in a previous life. Things have changed. 

 

When Thor opens the door, the surprise is etched through his face. His blue eyes grow to the size of saucers and his mouth falls just the tiniest bit open. It makes you smile from the sheer comedy. 

 

“Hi,” you greet, wishing you had something to keep your hands busy. 

 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, looking down at you with concern in his eyes. 

 

You inhale deeply, “Can I come inside?” 

 

His Adam’s apple bobs as he opens his door to allow you to pass. 

 

Nostalgia is a fickle friend. At times, it storms through you with lightning and floods your senses, making your heart race and eyes glisten. Other times, it brings back moments that you long to forget, that make you cringe and ache. 

 

You feel the former when you walk through the door. It’s like seeing how slowly time truly moves. It illustrates you how different you have become.

 

Thor’s rooms look exactly as they were: with an unkemptness, dressed with regal red tapestries and carpets. Your hands fist at your sides, grasping the silky material of your dress to keep you anchored to reality because, for one brief moment, you were flying away into the past. 

 

How ridiculous you must look, standing there and gawking at the room like it was shouting obscene things at you. So, you stride forward to a plush seat. Thor stands awkwardly as you sit, then comes out of a stupor and moves to your side. 

 

“Why are you here?” He asks after a moment too long of stretched silence. 

 

You try to think of something to say, something that can make this as easy as possible, something to calm your racing heart, but Thor beats you to it. 

 

“I suppose it does not matter. You are here, that’s all I have asked for.” He sighs and fists his hands together, cracking his large knuckles. “I was beginning to think you would never forgive me,” he chuckles. 

 

“I don’t,” you frown as the words immediately slip out. “I mean-“

 

“I know what you mean,” he nods. “Forgiveness is earned. I hope I have done enough to earn it.” 

 

“Have you?” 

 

“I like to believe I have.” 

 

Perhaps he’s right. Perhaps he has earned forgiveness. Perhaps. But, when you behold him now, not like an enamored girl or a wife, when you just regard him as a man, not as a future king or a God, forgiveness could not matter less. 

 

“Have I?” He asks, turning to finally look at you. The question leaves too much room in a conversation that needs to be crowded and cramped. Your conversation needs to be filled with distractions. It needs to be cluttered. 

 

You reach forward and grasp his chin, your thumb softly pads against the skin, feeling the bristly warmth of his beard. It’s strange how coarse and thick it is, like each piece of hair is an individual strand of hay. You used to run your fingers through it, braiding the small strands. And when your fingers begin to curl, Thor closes his eyes, as if he too is lost in old reveries. 

 

So, you close your eyes and shift closer to him, finally allowing your lips to dance over his. They’re plump. Hot. You try not to wince, but you can feel the tension seep into your forehead. 

 

You put every feeling into the kiss: betrayal, humiliation, and fear. And you try to manufacture ones that aren’t organic, like lust and longing. 

 

You’re ashamed of yourself. 

 

Thor’s own hand creeps up the back of your neck, tangling his fingers into your hair to cradle your skull.

 

You try to lose yourself in the moment. Imagining cold lips, cold hands, lean fingers. Imagining Loki. But everything is the opposite and it’s hard to pretend when the reality is so far from the fantasy. 

 

His lips move against yours effortlessly. Just as they used to. 

 

Your hands fall to his broad shoulders, making his muscles tense under your touch. And when you separate your lips to let his tongue slither inside, Thor groans.

 

It’d oddly different and the same. 

 

It’s _nostalgic_. 

 

Both for the good and the bad. 

 

His hands mirror yours and drop to your shoulders, then sweep around to your back, pulling you closer to him. A surprised squeak spills from your lips and he responds with another groan. It’s deep and glutaral. 

 

Like a predator. 

 

And that’s when his hand worms its way into the back of your dress. Suddenly, his hot touch isn’t just on your lips or your face. It’s on your upper back, exploring its way lower and lower. 

 

It’s distracting. So, you purse your lips, press them harder against his. You kiss Thor. Really kiss him. You let his hand frame your sides, let it graze your skin. You let him. And all the while, your mind races, as you pray for it not to overthink this. 

 

But it spirals. 

 

Rapidly. 

 

It recedes like quicksand. 

 

And before you know it, the world is on its side and Thor is hovering over you. 

 

He’s trying to keep you there, in the present. It doesn’t work. Because in the pit of your stomach is a Speck reminding you of the millions of reasons why this is wrong and why you shouldn’t be there. 

 

You rip your lips from Thor’s, just as he’s pulling at the skirts of your dress. 

 

Too fast. 

 

You can’t. 

 

Too easy. 

 

You can’t. 

 

As Thor looks up at you, grinning with a boyish, indigo glint in his eye, he kneels between your bent legs, clutching your skirts and lifting them past your knees. 

 

That’s when the first tear slips out. 

 

You swiftly turn your cheek, hiding the tear in a pillow. It smells like fire -- a burning, blistering fire. 

 

Thor says something. He kisses the inside of your knee. 

 

But you can’t stop the tears. Because suddenly, it’s not just the one. It’s two. Three. Four. 

 

You think you’re going to be sick as nausea swims in your stomach, ready to exit your body in streams of honesty. So, you tighten your knees, trying to metaphorically lock yourself into this decision. 

 

And….  
  


“Stop,” you whisper in a broken syllable.

 

He doesn’t hear you though. No, his thick, blunt fingers twirl over your knee and up your thigh.

 

“Stop,” you manage to finally choke out louder. Your legs clamped closed.

 

That’s when Thor finally pauses. His large hands stop, caught between the flesh of your limbs. “Are you crying?”

 

You bite your lip and flutter your eyelids closed, pressing your palms to your eyelids as if the pressure alone would help your thoughts.

 

You shake your head, as another tear slips out. _No, you’re not crying._ You’re simply one step away from sobbing.

 

Thor retreats back onto his haunches, retracting his touch. “I do not understand. I have given you time. What more could I give you- could I do? I have not pressured you. I did not even have to tell you what I did.” He continues to mutter all the things he’s done, all the _right_ things he’s done.

 

You already know. You know how _good_ and how _right_ he has been, but that doesn’t make it better. That doesn’t change how you feel. Change. A sliding tide. You draw your legs in, pulling yourself to a sitting position and fixing your dress.

 

“Everything has changed,” he speaks.

 

“It has,” you agree, letting your hands dance along the edges of your lips. A long time ago, his kisses would thrill you, warm you, comfort you. Now it’s shocking, paralyzing, and nauseating. “I don’t love you anymore,” you numbly realize out loud. 

 

When you finally look at Thor, you would think he was a statue, still, silent, and bronzed, but the vein at the crook of his neck, twitches, and pulses with a rhythm. “What do I do? How do I fix this?”

 

“You can’t,” you whisper. “We’ve grown apart. And I- I love someone else.”

 

“What?” His head turns quickly to look at you.

 

“I…” you swallow your words, shaking your head.

 

“Who?”

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

“It does.”

 

You shake your head, letting your eyes slip to the ground. “I’m not who I used to be,” you say. “I can’t be who I used to be. I don’t _want_ to be who I used to be.”

 

Thor stands from the settee and crosses the room to his desk. He puts both of his palms on it, hanging his head. “You found someone else, who has distracted you with promises and you decide to give up on me?”

 

“I’m not giving you up,” you say. “I’m letting you go.”

 

He laughs, then violently pounds his fists on the desk so hard that it splinters. “You do realize that we are married? There is no way out. We are to rule Asgard. You swore by the Norns to rule justly. Tell me, is he worth a noose around your neck?” 

 

He’s talking of the promises you made to rule, the vows you said, the way you swore to always protect the Nine. Betraying a King… that’s not protecting, that’s treachery.

 

Your mouth dries instantly at the portrait Thor is painting. “You wouldn’t do that. We can solve, we can stay married,” you let your fantasies run wild with a solution. “We can pretend to be happy, as we have pretended. And you can be with who makes you happy behind doors, and I’ll do the same. We can make this work, Thor.”

 

He takes a glass from the desk and hurls it past your head, letting it shatter. You shriek as it impacts against a tapestry. When you look at Thor, you see a changed man. A dangerous glint in his eyes, sorrow and repulsion. A dangerous elixir.

 

“Get out,” he grumbles coldly.

 

“Please,” you whisper, realizing what you have condemned yourself to.  

 

“I said, get out.”

 

But you don’t move. You’re stuck, frozen on that plush seat, staring at the tattered remnants of your life.

 

Finally, Thor stands to his towering height and walks back over to you. He grabs your arm, hoisting you to your feet and dragging you to the entrance of his chambers. His grip is a vice, cruel and predatorial. When he gets you to the entrance he swings the door out and pushes you through it not giving you the slightest careful regard.

 

You’ve never seen him like this. “Please don’t-don’t do anything rash. Don’t, Thor. Please.”

 

His face is grave, the circles under his eyes are darker moment by moment. And he just stands there, looking at you like you’re nothing.

 

“I need time,” he mocks you, closing the door in your face.

 

It’s ironic, how you are exactly where you were. How being on the opposite end of infidelity the devour you just as much.

 

And when you walk back to your rooms, tears fall again. You take in a shaky breath, letting the regret wash over you. The weight of what you said, what you admitted to, hangs in a heavy in the shadowed gallows, warning you and calling you away.

 

You stop at your door, scared to go inside, terrified of being alone, petrified of being with him.

 

So, you still and stare. He’ll think you are crazy, senseless, wild, and irrational.

 

You’ll know you are careless and reckless, but fully aware and unforgiving in your actions. Yes, regret is a heavy burden.

 

Then, you enter.

 

xXxXx

Loki is angry.

 

Quite angry.

 

He’s tense and demure. He’s not smiling when you enter like he already knows. He frowns when you tell him what happened, hangs his head when you sit next to him. Then, he stiffens when you touch him, and even worse: he’s casually cruel with his words.

 

You made a mistake.

 

You know so, you say so. And it doesn’t help. In fact, it makes it worse. He scoffs and retreats to your bedroom. But, your mind whispers, at least he stays.

 

You make your way to your room to see Loki standing there staring at your room like it’s speaking to him. You make your way over to him and run your hands over his face. And he looks at you the same way he always does. Like you are a sun, radiant and giving, not like a poisoning, vapid snake.

 

He lifts his hands and pushes your hair from your face, framing your cheek and letting his eyes behold you.

 

“You are an unfathomable idiot.”

 

His words are said like a caress, but again they’re harsh.

 

Then he leans down and kisses your forehead, retracting your form from his. He steps away.

 

“Don’t leave me.” You say with desperation. “Please, don’t.”

 

“I need to fix this,” he calls over his shoulders.

 

You reach for his hand, forcing him to turn to face you. “Tomorrow,” you say in a hushed tone, “You can fix it tomorrow.”

 

“In time for Thor to tell Odin?”

 

“Thor won’t say a word, he’ll come to his senses. He won’t betray me.”

 

Loki cocks his head, “Hasn’t he already?”

 

You slap him. Your emotions pouring out in that way that only Loki invokes, with open palms, and burning senses. Then a tear falls, as you cover his struck cheek. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

 

You collapse against him, hang onto him, and mumble apology after apology against his chest. The silky chemise he wears presses against your cheek as you nuzzle your head against him.

 

But Loki stands there, not returning your embrace. 

 

Finally, after what feels like hours, his hands wrap around you, pulling you close.

 

He doesn’t have to say a word as he lifts your chin. You know what he’s doing, what this is.

 

His orbs are full of regret and his lips are thin with intent. “I love you,” he reminds you.

 

Then, his lips slant over yours carefully.

 

His mouth stays closed, even when you try to pour every ounce of passion into them. You try every emotion: regret, hope, love.

 

Don’t leave me, the kiss begs.

 

Loki’s lips don’t respond. When he pulls away, he’s careful to not look at you.

 

And he leaves you in a pool on your floor.

 

He leaves you -- shattered into a heaping, broken vestige of someone you used to be.

 

* * *

 

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	11. I'd kiss you as the lights went out

_My Darling Daughter,_

_Please be so kind as to come to my chambers for after-dinner tea. It has been far too long since I have seen your face._

_With love,_

_Frigga_

It is a simple note strung together with words that are both daunting and docile. 

 

You walk through your chambers, trudging heavily to your dressing room and stopping near your boudoir. With a deep inhale, you stare into the golden vanity mirror. Your face is long, harrowing, and ashen, with dark circles under your eyes and red-rimmed nostrils, both are evidence of the aching heartbreak you are enduring.

 

You stand there, looking at your reflection, reminded of how you looked that first night. The night that drew you to what you may come to judge as a mammoth regret or climactic triumph. 

 

For, it must be one or the other, there’s no way this path ends in anything other than destruction or paradise. Hel or Valhalla. And… in the end, regardless of the outcome, regardless of the person by your side, you have yourself to face it with.

 

With one last glance at the gold lace dress you are wearing, you spin on your heel and exit your rooms. You have no energy to call on a maid to fix your hair or make up your face. You just long for sleep. An endless sleep.

 

You walk to Frigga, your mind honing in on a singular thought. A singular word, name. Loki.

 

Stay. All he had to do was _stay_. Instead, Loki turned on his heel with tense shoulders and a taut jaw, leaving you behind. 

 

His name is a chant, a prayer. It reverberates in the corners of your mind like a desperate plea casting a dark shadow over what should be the happiest moment of your life. You’re having a baby. After so long of trying and thinking you never could. 

 

Instead of feeling joy, Loki basically ripped your heart out and shredded it before your eyes, put it back together then severed it again. Over and over. You want to trust him, you wish that you could, but you can’t. 

 

When you get to Frigga’s room, you knock, waiting for a servant to allow you entrance.

 

Only a maid doesn’t come to the door. Instead, Frigga’s gleaming face greets you, bright, dressed, and ecstatic to see you.

 

The truth is, when you received the note, your heart sank and your stomach dropped, thinking for sure that Thor told her of your infidelity. As you enter the room, you notice they are completely empty. This is the first time you’ve been unaccompanied in Frigga’s chambers. Ever. Even after your wedding, there were always people milling around the Allmother’s chambers.  But now, it is just you and her. And she’s giving you the most particular type of look. One that is neither harsh or kind.

 

When you take a seat at the dining table across from her, the Queen lifts a pot to fill your teacup. You take a hesitant sip after blowing on the steaming liquid.

 

“I have not seen you in some time daughter. One would think you are avoiding us.”

 

You startle for a moment, making liquid spill over the edge of your cup as you raise your eyebrows. Sure, you haven’t been to dinner with the family since Loki stormed from your chambers, but for Frigga to speak so plainly is shocking. You cough and carefully put the tea back on its saucer.

 

“I am not,” you lie.

 

Frigga’s eyes soften, her hands reaching for yours. “There is no need to lie here.”

 

“I am no-” You stop at Frigga’s ogle, swallowing back another falsehood.

 

She changes the subject, “I saw the most peculiar thing the other evening.” 

 

You shift in your seat, frighteningly aware of Frigga’s calculating gaze and measured tone.

 

You smile tersely, “And what was that?”

 

Frigga lets go of your hand, taking a sip from her cup and staring at you with a light mirthfulness in her crystal eyes that steals your breath. In that exact moment, it was not Frigga looking back at you, it was Loki.

 

“Did you know that I used to study with the Völva?”

 

You nod, “Of course.” Everyone knows that. Stories of Frigga’s talent as a master of the mystical arts is common knowledge. And one of the ways to become a master was to study with the Völva and learn how to read the future. Whether it was through tea leaves, incantations, or enchanted objects, the Völva were able to give any pupil foresight. And Frigga studied with them for nearly a thousand years.

 

“Well… while I did study with them, I was not granted the premonition that you would think. Rather, they plagued me with _feelings_ of the future.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

Frigga licks her lips, thinking. “Sometimes, my sleep is plagued.”

 

“So, you see the future in your dreams,” you surmise.

 

“Not exactly,” Frigga shakes her head. “Usually, I can feel something is awry and it wakes me up. As you can imagine, I don’t sleep well.”

 

“I see,” you say, not really _seeing_ at all.

 

“Nearly a week ago, I woke in a panic. There was something so undeniably wrong, I could feel it in my gut. Normally, I wake and pace around before going for a walk in the gardens. Loki usually accompanies me. He’s always awake until twilight toying in his room with his seidr or a book,” Frigga softly smiles, lost in the moment of thinking of her son. You ignore the sudden stab of hearing his name allowed, spoken so casually. “But, when I went to his rooms that night, he wasn’t there.”

 

Your mouth dries. To keep your hands busy, you take another sip of tea, the cup shivering in your shaking fingers.

 

“It was in those moments, as I stood in his rooms I could feel the pain most. The turned furniture, broken glass. I knew it was him I felt. His pain was so powerful and I had no idea of it until it was too late. Perhaps, if I had known...” She trails off. “Anyway, I thought for almost an hour on where he would go while in that much pain.” She looks at you, expectantly. “Do you have any idea where he would have been at such a late hour?”

 

So this is why you were here. Why you were sitting opposite the Allmother without another to hear you. Finally, you put the china down. Without a sense of propriety, without a sense of self-preservation, you admit to the truth. “He was in my chambers.”

 

“Yes, he was.” Frigga nods. “I trusted my gut and went to you. Imagine my surprise when I found your door open and the two of you in your bed sobbing in each other’s arms.”

 

You think of that night. Of all the nights for Frigga to catch, that would be the hardest to explain. For what reasons would Loki be in your bed crying, and why would you be crying too?  When he came to see you, crumbling to the floor, broken, begging for forgiveness, his pain was immense and yours was too.

 

Call it what you want. Call it infidelity, call it stupidity, call it hypocrisy. But what _you_ call it, that’s what matters. Love. True, burdened love. And, that’s the thought that breaks you. With Frigga’s gaze imploring you, the dam breaks.  

 

The weight of the past few days, the heavy load of your confession to Thor, and Loki’s absence, is lifted. And what’s left, is hunched shoulders, falling face, and tears. A girl crushed beneath the enormity of her actions.

 

You dart your gaze to hers. “I’m so sorry,” you murmur as tears prickle your eyes. “I didn’t mean to cause this. I didn’t.” Sobs wrack your body as you keel over, hyperventilating and feeling the crushing defeat for the first time. You let it overtake you and drift you far away.

 

The last thing you expected was Frigga’s arms to hug you close and run soothing, hypnotizing circles on your back, comforting you in the way only a parent can. You realize then that she was kneeling next to your chair.

 

You shake your head, inhaling and trying to shake her off. But she only grips you tighter, pulling your chin into her fingertips, imploring for you to look at her. “I d-d-didn’t know. I didn’t know this would happen.”

 

“Shh,” Frigga hushes you. “I know, I know.”

 

“He said he was going to fix it. He promised and then he left us. He left us.”

 

Frigga’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, trying to make sense of your ramblings. “What was he going to fix?”

 

You drop your gaze to her chin, her eyes becoming far too enchanting for you to look into. You only mull over your thoughts for a moment before falling victim to her prying looks. You tell her everything.

 

Beginning with the infertility, Thor’s infidelity then ending with your pregnancy and adultery.

 

And through it all, Frigga’s face remains calm, compassionate as she listens to your tale. The only time she shows a hint of feeling is when you tell her that you’re with child. Her eyes brighten for a brief moment, she glances at your stomach, then lets her blue eyes dance up your body. You continue on then, moving your hand rest against your womb guarding Speck in the only way you can.

 

The moments after you finish, when the only sound in the air is mingling breaths, Frigga asks you something that no one ever has.

 

“My daughter,” she whispers like she’s afraid a simple word will make you fall apart again. “Do you want to be Queen.”

 

You reel back your head, removing her grasp from your face and wrapping both your arms around your middle. “My wishes don’t matter,” you reply automatically, cringing at the sound of your stuffy voice. And when Frigga keeps her eyes on yours, when she doesn’t answer, you decide to throw away caution. You decide to tell the truth. And after so much lying, after so much heartbreak, you shake your head and say, “I only want him.”

 

And then, Frigga’s smile is all-engulfing. It’s like a spotlight, an anchoring realization. “That is good to know.” Then she stands and pulls you with her, leaving her chambers without a word. “Come,” she speaks as you stumble ungracefully behind her.

 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

 

The corners of Frigga’s lips lift as she leads you through the startling empty halls, but she doesn’t answer. It’s the type of smile that is both telling and secretive. It sends butterflies wafting through your stomach. 

 

“Where is everyone?” You try again, but Frigga shakes her head.

 

“The castle sleeps.”

 

An explanation without one, then.

 

The two of you walk in companionable silence, with nothing but your footsteps resounding through the stone walls. It’s about twenty minutes before you realize where you are going. 

 

“We are headed towards the Temple of the Norns.” 

 

Frigga nods, “We are.” 

 

“Why?” You demand.

 

“Because that is where binding ceremonies take place.” 

 

You stutter to a stop, looking at her incredulously. “A binding ceremony?”

 

Frigga turns to you, more impatient than you’ve ever seen her. “You can ask the questions when you get there. For now, trust me.”

 

But, trust is fickle, it’s given and betrayed too easily. Yet, you still follow her, like a lamb, waiting for the butcher around the corner. Frigga pauses at the door to the temple, her delicate fingers grasping the doorknob. “I would like to warn you, that if you go through with what’s behind those doors, nothing will ever be the same.”

 

She looks at you with a smile and then turns back to open the door.  

 

When the entrance opens, the brightness momentarily blinds you. It reminds you of the first time you stepped foot in the temple - for your wedding. 

 

With romantic, arched ceilings, statues, and stain-glass windows, the temple is a grand part of the castle. You’re catapulted back to the moment you promised yourself to Thor. To when your world would never be the same. But, Loki stands at the end of the aisle wearing ceremonial armor. As if preparing for war, a battle.

 

He’s not alone though.

 

Var stands to his left, her shoulders stiff, with a deep frown marring her face. She looks angry, exhausted, and frustrated.

 

You stutter in the doorway when Loki’s gaze shifts to you. It softens as he takes a step forward and pauses.

 

“Mother,” Loki greets. “You are later than I expected.”

 

“You are far too smug for such an occasion,” she admonishes.

 

Frigga walks forward, shaking her head with a playful smile on her face. When she reaches her son, her voice lowers, and his eyes remain on you. His smile slips from his face, suddenly growing more serious with every word she whispers. 

 

She pats his cheek and moves towards Var, taking the Goddess and walking with her towards a pew. You try and study them as Loki begins to stalk towards you. 

 

You drag your leer to him when he’s not one step from you. 

 

“My love,” he says, his hand reaching for your hand. 

 

“What is this?” You ask, moving your hand away.

 

His eyes flash with hurt, pain, but he moves his hand back to his side. “I assume my mother left the explanations to me.” When you don’t answer, he sighs. “This is the solution. The only I can think of, the only I want.”

 

“I don’t understand,” you mumble, looking around at the empty temple.

 

“A binding ceremony,” Loki begins, his hands itching for yours at his sides, “Is the only thing that can override a marriage. Tying ourselves to one another for eternity is unbreakable.”

 

“It’s dangerous,” you say, shaking your head and remembering all the warnings of such a ritual. “The Norns could consider it a desecration because of my marriage.”

 

“They could,” Loki nods. “They could condemn us to different levels in Hel, separate from one another forever. Forced to live with heartbreak. They could smite me in this temple for daring to even try it, but I have no other solution.”

 

“You would risk damnation?”

 

He smiles tightly, his eyes falling to the ground. “For you,” he mumbles. When he picks his head up, you see his eyes glistening. “There are many lines that I have crossed with the Norns, what is another? Perhaps, this is where they want me.”

 

“Or, perhaps, they are waiting for you to utter the words and tear you away from me and your child forever.”

 

Loki sighs and circles you, hovering behind you but not pressing his chest to your back. Then you can feel his head lean forward, the shadow of his profile invades the corner of your eyes.  “May I touch you,” he whispers into your ear.

 

You nod and Loki lifts your right hand, pulling it into his grip. From behind you, he guides your fingers and points to a bench in the seventh row. “That is where you sat the day of Thor’s coronation as heir.” He then moves subtly it subtly to the left, to a bunch a few rows up, “And that is where you were the day that my true heritage was announced.” And so, it goes on, telling you of all the places you’ve sat once upon the time and all the times he has noticed you. Finally, he says, “It seems, no matter when or why, your presence was always in the back of my mind, haunting me. And now, that I’ve seen you, thought of you, loved you, there is not another that could ever tempt me. There is not another reason for me to live.”

 

“We could just run,” you say. “We don’t need to do this.”

 

“We will have to run regardless,” Loki says and you pivot harshly in his arms. “I’m afraid though, without this protecting us, you will always be bound to Asgard and its throne.”

 

“Loki,” you start, shaking your head and taking a step back. “You hurt me. You left me.”

 

“I had to, at that moment.”

 

“No, you did not have to, Loki. You _chose_ to.”

 

He sighs, running a hand through his raven hair, mussing his tamed tresses. “Thor knows now. That changes everything.” 

 

“How? He doesn’t know it is you and he wouldn’t say anything.” 

 

Loki grasps your forearm, gently digging his fingers into your flesh, “Do you know that? For a fact? Because I do not.” You pause, looking into Loki’s seawater eyes, reading his emotions like an old tome, deciphering every thought and feeling: He’s lost. He’s scared, cleaning up the tatters and doing anything he can to reassemble your life. “I will not risk our child or your life on his whims.” 

 

You peer down at the floor, tears coming to your eyes. “I was so scared,” you mumble. 

 

Loki’s hands slide to cheek, softly padding his thumb over your skin. “As was I.” His eyes seek out your gaze, waiting until you give him your attention. “When you left to be with Thor, I was... disturbed. I prayed to the Norns that it would not happen, bargaining with every ounce of my being. Then, you returned having not gone through with it. That was when I knew, this is our fate. They led us here.”

 

You shake your head, not believing his words. Refusing to. 

 

“ _I am sorry_ , could not express the depths of my regret.”

 

You bite your lip as emotion bubbles through you. _Good._

 

“Will you?” He pauses, so you lift your gaze to look at his face. He looks scared. Terrified. His jaw tense. “Will you bind yourself to me? To a God of Chaos?”

 

You swallow, turning your head to look at the altar, seeing Vár staring at a glistening golden rope in Frigga’s palms. “I’m afraid,” you finally admit.

 

Loki nods, pulling your hand to his lips. “Then we won’t do this.”

 

He turns on his heel, likely to tell his mother and Vár that there is no need to do this.

 

Maybe, you realize at that moment. That all the items you thought betraying Thor was betraying what was good and kind, was not. And maybe, you thought that by trusting Loki, you were trusting the wicked.

 

But… what if Loki was right. What if this is exactly where you were meant to be, what if this was fate’s hand, pushing and pulling you however reluctantly to this moment. Coincidences. You aren’t entirely sure coincidences exist.

 

You pull Loki’s hand, dragging him back to you. “Promise me fidelity.”

 

His eyes burn into yours, “Always.”

 

“And promise me, you will never hide the truth.”

 

“I swear.”

 

“And that no matter where we go it will be together.”

 

“Everywhere.”

 

And, you see it all in his eyes. The truth. The future.

 

Is this how Frigga saw it?

 

You see your bodies intertwined. Your bind with one another defined in the rays of a rising sun. You once believed love had to be red, gold, but, what if it didn’t have to be. What if it was able to just be what you decided.

 

You bite your lip, looking at him.  “Not like this.” When Loki stills, you smile. “I want to bind myself with you. The real you.”

 

Jotunn.

 

It’s heavily implied when you grasp his hand.

 

The next thing you know, you are in his arms, spun high above his head, your dress twirling around you as he laughs. Like that first laugh. Like the first night in his bed. _This_ , you decide, is love. _This_ will be the moment that when you are up there, you will think of. Your heart filled with promise and joy, your love beating in each other’s arms. His skin, as you swirl above him, transforms to an azure color, to the real him. Just as requested.

 

And after, when you are at the end of the aisle with both of your hands clasped before one another, when Loki says his words. He’s not brought down before your eyes. And you blindly hope for a moment.

 

Thoughts of betrayal aren’t on your mind. Thoughts of a husband, or duties, or a crown. No, the only thought running through your mind is dawn. The dewy grass just before the sunrises. The fresh perspective of a new day, a new start, a new beginning.

 

You had been wandering around in an endless night, blinded in darkness and forgetting how beautiful life could be.

 

You speak words, ancient ones. Promises, oaths, compromises that you have never sworn to another. This is so much more, you realize than anything you’ve given to another. And after you say the words, an indescribable feeling spreads through you. Perhaps it was you, the Norns would smite. You started this after all.

 

A swift panic splices through you in a terrifying shiver. Your soul is sliced in two and one half of it is married with him, with Loki. Your souls patched into a whole being. Then, dust settles. You can breathe for the first time in your life. The lights become clearer, the colors are sharper.

 

Looking into Loki’s eyes you see red, dawn, burning fire. A rainbow of a sunrise. Everything is so vivid and so extremely delicate.

 

A rope is tethered against his and your hands, binding them together in a knot as Frigga chants. Tying them literally and symbolically for eternity. It glows, brightly. The lattice takes hold of something that you can’t describe, and then it simmers into your skin branding you for a moment before disappearing.

 

And that is it.

 

For the first time in front of someone else, Loki’s lips descend upon yours unapologetically. It’s a kiss unlike any other. It is patient and kind, boastful and proud. It is promising. Protecting. Honest. Steadfast.

 

So many things, in the end, you decide to describe it as. The kiss is so many things.

 

When he pulls you closer, you smile against him, bringing your hands to his hair, digging your finger through his tresses. Finally, after far too fast, Loki pulls back, letting his forehead rest against yours. “I am yours,” he whispers. “Forever.”

 

Your eyes pool with tears that you refuse to shed. You don’t want to cry ever again. Though, perhaps wishing for such a thing with a God of Mischief is impossible.

 

He lets you go and turns to his mother. “Thank you,” he whispers, hugging her.

 

And it gives you a moment to look at Vár, at her sunken, defeated eyes.

 

This oath must have ripped her into pieces. She kept your last oath, after all, and she just witnessed another, effectively voiding your last one. To keep oaths is strenuous. They each take a piece of your soul, tethering a promise in its place. Your last oath just died, killing a piece of her.

 

When she looks at you, her look is monstrous. “Three days,” she tells you. “I will keep this to myself for three days before telling the Allfather.”

 

You could beg for her silence, barter for it, lower yourself to such an evil thing. Instead, you speak, “Thank you.”

 

This is the end of your friendship. You are aware of that.

 

You turn to Loki, uncaring. Perhaps, that taste of indifference is the part of you that is Loki. “Do we leave now?”

 

Loki shakes his head, pulling you back into his arms, not giving you a spare moment. “Tomorrow,” he says against your lips. Then, he kisses you again, and the throne room fades away as you’re transported somewhere else.

 

* * *

 

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Thank you for being patient with this chapter. 

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	12. swaying as the room burned down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is shameless smut. Proceed with caution.

A calming, floral scent assaults your senses.

“Where are we?”

Your question is valid as your eyes scan the unfamiliar terrain.

It’s merely a bedroom, so similar to others, with a vast, four-post bed on a raised platform in the center of the room. Though, instead of just a mattress and covers, thousands of lilac petals are scattered over the silky white duvet. That explains the familiar clean scent saturating the air.

Your eyes scan the room, noting the wooden beams, lofty ceilings, and rustic lavatory off to the far side.

Loki shrugs, his fingers playing with your hand in his grasp. “Somewhere special.”

You roll your eyes, stepping in front of Loki and towards a window, hoping your viewpoint could provide some discernment on your location.

But when you get there, the view explains nothing and everything.

There is no tall view, no sweeping vista of Asgard’s cities. There’s no villages in the distance, or mountains and waterfalls. Instead, the only landscapes in front of you is a deep river surrounded by towering trees lit in moonlight. What’s odd about it though, is that they’re all level to you.

“We’re in the forest,” he finally elaborates.

The river is gleaming and slow-moving in the moonlight. It’s wide and seemingly deep, but furry animals scurry around the banks drinking from the water.

You turn, folding your arms over your chest. “Frigga’s cottage.”

“I don’t understand,” you whisper.

Loki takes three steps over to you and pulls you into his arms, caging you to his chest. He tilts your head back so your eyes connect. “This is Frigga’s cottage. She had it built for Odin as a present. They have not visited in nearly two hundred years. But it’s far from the reach of the castle. Secluded.”

You lick your lips, understanding now why you were there. “And she lent it to us?”

Loki hums, lowering his head so his mouth was a breath away from yours. “She didn’t want us waking up the castle with our coupling.”

You release a bark of laughter from his lewd comment and throw your head back. “I’m  _ sure _  that’s exactly what she said.”

“You don’t believe me?” His voice becomes slightly defensive in a humorous sort of way.

“I believe that may have been her sentiment.” You nod. “Though I’m sure she phrased it more as wanting to give us privacy.”

“Still,” Loki’s voice is a smile. “Same sentiment.”

His hand reaches to your forehead, pushing back an errant strand of hair that has fallen out of place.

Like your core is a bottomless pit, your stomach drops. And in its place a rush of heat flows over your skin, swelling with excitement, admiration, and adoration. When Loki’s eyes search yours, you realize he’s feeling the same thing. A small smile graces his lips as he looks at you, finding something hidden in your depths.

Your heart begins to race, or maybe it is his. Both of your hearts gallivant, nerves burn the edges of your fingertips, eyes seeing a montage of emotion in the other’s gaze.

“Hi,” you finally say, smiling.

Loki lifts both of your hands, pressing his palms against yours. Then, with minimal effort, he laces his fingers through yours, pulling them above your head and caging them against the wall.

“Good evening, my love,” he whispers, finally leaning down to kiss you for the first time since the ceremony.

You instantly open your mouth, welcoming his tongue to slither inside and dance with yours. Loki falls forward, pressing his chest, his hips against yours. After a few moments of dominance, you hook your leg over his hip, opening yourself up to him so you can feel him against your most intimate place. He knows that. Instantly.

Loki groans, his lips renewing with vigor, in a near abusing pressure. He tears his mouth from yours and kisses a trail down the column of the neck, teeth nipping as he moves. You roll your head to the left, giving him better access to your skin.

His kisses sweep like a butterfly across your form, flaming you as you go.

Loki’s not doing anything different, anything abnormal, but for some reason, your soul burns hotter than ever before. Passion. He smirks against your skin when you release a groan and try to launch your leg higher. Like you’re trying to climb him.

“Patience,” he whispers. You shake your head as he releases your hands, kissing his way back to your lips. He stills there for a moment, staring into you. “Patience.”

Finally, his fingers begin to pluck at the front of your dress. Skin is slowly revealed behind the gold lace fabric. His fingertips ghost over your breastbone and down your sternum, lightly fluttering patterns over your skin. And he presses his hand there, just touching, feeling. His stare is focused on your stomach as he presses his hand lower and into your dress.

But you can’t feel his touch, his calloused palms, his exploration. All you feel is this sensation inside you, pooling on your core, desire sweeping across your skin, and most of all, the unmistakable sense of him inside of you.

You feel him there, in your heart, your mind. You feel his desire, his fortitude. You want him inside you. His body. You need it.

You move your hands to his jacket, tearing at the fabric in a haze of need.

“Patience,” he mutters again, taking your hands in his. He kisses both and lets them fall to your side.

His hands then push your dress off your shoulders and slowly pushing it down your hips. He resumes kissing across your skin before falling to his knees at your feet, pulling the fabric of your gown with him.

There are tears in his eyes as he dips forward and kisses your right hipbone.

“Loki,” you sigh, weaving your fingers through the roots of his hair as he kisses his way to your other hip. He looks up then, his fingers pulling your under-shift up, revealing your pink sex to the cold air.  

He licks his lips, then reaches out and pulls your thigh over his shoulder. He kisses you on your sex, open-mouthed, licking between your lips. His tongue presses against the swollen nub at the precipice.

His tongue moves in languid strokes, like he’s content on his knees for you, worshiping your hips as an altar. Writing scripture and prayers, Loki moves with purpose. You can feel yourself grow wetter and wetter as you look down at him. Dark eyelashes fan his cheeks as he tilts his head up closer to your entrance. His hands remain caging your hips, tightening when you begin to pull on his hair.

“Please,” you whisper, trying to escape his lips and pull him back to you. “I want you inside of me.”

Loki shakes his head, moving quicker, his tongue dancing delicate circles against your clit, heightening your pleasure.

It blooms in your chest, flowering and growing with each strike his tongue delivers.

You groan when two fingers move from your hip and push into you. You throw your head back, not caring as it hits the wall. The pain is nothing compared to the carnal gratification.

“Stop,” you demand when your hips begin to move on their own, stilling yourself.

You don’t want to finish. Don’t want this to finish. You want him inside of you, his lips on yours, his hair sticking to your cheek and eyes staring into you.

Loki’s fingers speed up, his tongue fatly licks you. You try everything, biting your lip, clamping your eyes closed. Anything to stop the ending.

Finally, Loki pulls back, sitting back on his haunches as his fingers continue to pump. He adds a third finger, and you bite your lip harder.

“I want you to come now, pet.” Loki’s words are clouds, billowing around you. You shake your head, finally looking into his eyes, pupils blown wide with pleasure. “Do not deny me. I want to taste you as you come on my tongue, want to feel your sweet cunt gripping my fingers.”

Your mouth falls open, picturing his words.

As if that is your answer, Loki returns to your sex.

It takes only two moments when you come around his fingers. Letting your body chase out your pleasure on his face.

Your chest heaves, body quakes, as Loki drinks from you with vulgar slurping sounds. He stands, kissing a pathway back to your lips. His tongue is stained with your essence, but you don’t care.

Finally, he lets you rip his clothes from him, unbuckling his pants and straining them over his hips. His cock bobs against his abdomen, fully erect and weeping at its tip.

You run a palm over it as Loki tears his lips from yours, peering into your eyes. “I could feel you coming pet, feel the pleasure inside of me. It took all of my discipline not to come in my pants. You have no idea.” His hips rut forward when you seize him. He hisses, then his hand drops to peel your touch away. “I believe you wanted me inside of you.”

No, now you want him in your mouth.

Before you can deny him, before you can voice the desire to get on your knees for him and return his efforts, you are in his arms. Loki hoists you higher, making your ankles cross on his back, just above the base of his spine, pressing your heels into him.

“You don’t play fair,” you remark when he shuffles to the bed.  

He laughs, kissing your neck. “I do not,” he agrees. He lays you on the bed, carefully. His palm cradles your head as he crawls over you. The flower petals softly press against your skin and tangling in your hair.

“Why lilacs?” You ask when he finally presses his lips against yours.

Loki pulls back, eyes gaping into yours. “Because…” he trails off. You lick your lips, turning your head to admire one of the petals. “Because you are my Spring. My redemption, my happiness. Because of your dresses, the tranquility I feel when I am with you. Because you are my passion. My first, my only love in this life and the ones to come.”

You can feel a tear roll down your cheek. “Loki,” you whisper.

He leans forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. “I love you,” he says against them.

You loop your leg over his hips and press on his backside until he enters you in one, swift motion.

xXxXx

“You know,” you say, lowering your stiff body into the water. “Lilacs have the shortest bloom spans.”

“Mmm,” Loki’s arms slither around you, pulling your back to his naked chest. “I believe I did know that.” He dips his head and kisses the crook of your neck.

The river courses around you, as the sunlight beats down overhead to warm you.

You can hear the frogs croaking, the leaves rustling as Loki sharply inhales, his palms traveling down the sides of your body.

“Stop that,” you admonish, “I’m trying to wash myself.”

“Let me help,” he offers, his dexterous fingers slipping between your folds. A stuttering breath releases from you as you lay your head on his shoulder.

“Wasn’t last night enough?”

It seems the night never ended. Your muscles are deliciously sore from having him inside you time and time again. It was an insatiable sort of feeling that couldn’t be quenched.

Loki laughs, his fingers continuing their exploration of your nether lips as his other hand begins to circle your breast, kneading it in his rough palm.  

“Did you want me to stop?”

You shake your head, rolling your hips in time with his fingers. No, you never want him to stop. You want to stay in this moment, right here in the cottage for as long as possible. Hidden amongst trees and rivers, lost in a heady haze.

“I like it here,” you finally admit, feeling the water roll over your skin.

One digit enters you when he answers, “I like it here as well.”

You smile to yourself as Loki begins to pull you to the side of the river and puts your hands on the embankment.

From down the stream, you hear voices, distorted noises wafting through the wind. You stand upright, “Do you hear that?” Your eyes search down the brook, trying to hide your nudity in the spring.

Loki turns his head to the side, stilling you. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs, returning his lips to your neck.

But the voices continue. Men raising their voices, women laughing. While it’s not getting closer, it’s not getting farther away either. “No, Loki. I hear something.”

The voices have almost a shine to them like they’re distant and close at the same.  

Loki sighs, muttering against your skin, “It is just a portal.”

“A what?” You swivel in his arms to look at him.

He chews on his bottom lip, the palm from your breast making its way to your cheek. “It is like a doorway to another realm. They are hidden all around Asgard, it seems we’re close to one is all.”

You pause, making sense of what Loki is saying. A hidden doorway to other realms? This couldn’t have been wildly known, right? Otherwise, the city could be under attack at all times.

You shake your head, “How do you know that? How do you know about this?”

Loki dismisses your questions with a shrug. “I have spent a large portion of my life traveling through the nine-realms. In it, I have found entrances to other worlds without using the Bifrost.” Loki pauses a smirk warming onto his face. “Otherwise, it would have been hard to dispense mischief without the Allfather knowing.” Your eyes grow wide at the admission.

“How many people know about these?”

“I couldn’t say, but one would think very few.”

“Bu-“

“Hush,” he whispers, putting an index finger on your lips. “You don’t need to worry about them. Trust me.”

You have so many questions, so many things you want to ask. But given the way that Loki looks at you with an amused smile and pursed lips, you nod.

His smile grows, “Now, turn around, my love.”

“Or what?” You tilt your head to look at him, forgetting about voices and doorways and mischief. Loki inhales sharply when you lick the finger at your lips in defiance to his demand.

Suddenly, another hand slithers to the back of your head, tangling itself into your hair and jerking your head back.

Panic surges inside of you. You try to turn your head, but you’re stuck in this position. “Loki,” you whisper in a stuttering question.

“Yes, love?” Loki’s voice asks from behind you.

You blink a few times, knowing what you heard. But Loki is also in front of you, smiling. His fingers begin separating your folds again. You immediately clamp your legs closed, stopping his movement and trapping his hand between your thighs.

Then, an azure hand creeps around your form, grasping your breast and pinching your nipple.

You gasp, surprised. “What is this?”

Your hair is released and you immediately shift it to your left to look over your shoulder. That’s when you see… Loki. Loki in his Jotunn form. You turn your head back to the original Loki, imploring him to explain.

The Loki behinds you dips his cold mouth to your neck, licking and biting your neck. It takes everything in you to keep concentrating on Loki in front of you, to not drop your head to the side.

“How?”

“So inquisitive today,” Loki says, moving his fingers. “Is this not something you haven’t thought of? Even in the darkest corners of your minds?”

Yes, it is.

“I…” You trail off as hands move all over your body, touching, caressing feeling.

You’re ashamed to admit that you have imagined being with both though you thought it was impossible. But the image of one inside of you, the other watching you. Perhaps the two taking turns, makes you flood with excitement.

Loki’s breaths come out in full pants, his pupils blown wide waiting for your answer.

Your legs subtly opens, it’s minuscule, tiny, but Loki feels it all the same. He smiles slyly, his lips pull back in an almost taunting smile.

“Say it,” he speaks, not moving his hand. “Tell me you want this.”

“I…” You begin with consent on the tip of your tongue. Perhaps it’s modesty, perhaps it’s a bit of fear, or something else. All you know is that your throat dries when you attempt to give consent.

And instantly, the Jotunn hands fall away and his head picks up from your neck, receding with your silence.

“Yes,” you finally say, your hand pulling Loki’s double back, bringing his hands to your chest. “Yes, I want you.”

Loki growls and you are twisted in his arms, brought face to face with his other form.

“Kiss him,” Loki demands into your ear, grinding his engorged, naked erection into your backside and pressing you against his double’s chest. You stand on your toes, kissing his double. Hands are everywhere, one on your breast, tweaking your tight bud, another in your hair. One is between your legs, twisting your clit in the same motions as the hands-on your chest.

You moan, a flood rushing between your lips, coating your nether region.

“That’s good, really good.” Loki states from behind you. His voice is husky, deep.

A frigid tongue slithers between your lips, undulating against yours just as Loki pushes one digit inside you. “Beautiful. You are so wet, so incredibly wet. You love this,” he snarls into your ear as the hand in your hair tightens. You open your eyes, finding red eyes locked to yours. You gasp when he bites your tongue, almost rough enough to draw blood. You pull back panting, and immediately, Loki kisses along your neck.

You are shuffled forward until the double lays on the grassy embankment, his blue skin glistens in the sunlight as rivulets of water drip down his skin. Your eyes trail over his body following the liquid that pools between the muscles of his stomach and along the raised lines of his skin. When your eyes land on his cock, straining in the air, you lick your lips. You want to taste him, lick him, suck him.

Just as you were denied the night prior.

As if sensing your decisiveness, the original Loki behind you snarls into your ear, “What do you want?”

“I want to suck him.”

“Then come closer,” the Loki in front of you speaks, beckoning with his finger. You have no choice but to follow.  

The embankment comes to your chest and you barely have to lean over to kiss his skin.

You lick the water from his icy skin, feeling emboldened by the pants coming from above and behind you. A hand combs through your hair, pulling your head closer to where he wants it. You take his cock in his hand, pumping him as your tongue licks the grooves of his hips. Slowly, you make your way over to his base and lick a long strip to its tip.

And as you do that, Loki inhales deeply behind you.

“I can feel you, doing that.” He mumbles. As the words escape him, he nudges your feet apart. “Every lick, every kiss, every bite.” He adds another finger inside of you. It moves quickly, curling making you moan. The second you open your mouth the hand in your hair forces you down and over his cock. Fingers fist your hair.

“Do you want me inside you?”  

You struggle to respond over the stiff member in your mouth. His icy taste covers your tongue as you bob your head up and down. So, you answer in the only way you think of, you bow your back, perking your backside. The fingers inside you move quicker, squelching with every movement as you hear the Loki under you groan.

“She does,” he answers for you.

The double pulls your head up from its ministrations just as the other enters you from behind. He pulls your head close to his, studying your expression. How your mouth falls open. How your lips are plump and full. How you heave for any air.

His expression is bored as his flaming eyes analyze you. “Do you like this? Do you enjoy being fucked by both of us? One in your tight cunt, the other fucking your mouth?” He dances his head closer, his skin sending icy air across your cheeks. “I want to know how much you like this. I want to hear you,” he sneers.

Before you can answer, he crashes his lips to yours, biting and nipping. The force of the other’s thrusts makes you topple over, but he is there, holding you up by your hair and with his arctic lips. He continues to violate you.

It’s heaven.

Loki’s cock continues to piston in quick precise movements. Soft moans escape from between your lips.

“You are mine,” Loki utters as his double begins to knead your breasts. “Mine only. My child grows inside of you. My seed has marked you. My double will fuck you. You are only mine.”  

You tear your lips from the Loki in front of you, gasping for breath.

The Jotunn leans down to suck on your breast, swirling around your stiff peak as his black, sharp nails trace patterns down your stomach. They reach the apex of your thighs and still move lower to where your sensitive, slick pearl throbs with ecstasy.

As he begins to rub rapid circles, the Loki behind you begins to pound harder. Violent slaps of skin sounds in the open air.

You close your eyes, leaning your head back to Loki’s shoulder as you come. Riding out the waves of pleasure from the ministrations. Your body climbs and falls, bowing with a frenzy.

Still, he doesn’t relent. He begins to thrust against the spot inside you that makes you quake even harder. But Loki’s double tears his fingers from your clit and brings them to his mouth sucking on them as he guides your head forward again.

He begins to thrust your head down, careful not to push too far, but still deciding the rhythm. He snarls, using your mouth as you rut yourself back on the original Loki. He pistons inside of you, the river water shakes with his violent movements.

You’re being used, you realized. Carefully and deliciously. As one cock thrusts into your mouth, the other plunges into your feminine channel. Their movements are exact, in tandem. And it’s the thought of how delicious they’d both feel inside of you at the same time that makes you groan around Loki’s member.

It’s like he can hear your thoughts, grunting and roaring from behind you. “I wager you would let us both fuck you at the same time, one in your quim,” he pauses, his finger tracing to your other puckered whole. “The other here.” He pushes one finger in as a demonstration. You stutter, scrape your teeth against the Jotunn cock in your mouth. “Yes, I wager you would,” he mumbles, pulling the finger out and then in again, eased by a slickness from either his seidr or your excitement. “I fathom you even want that. Both of us using you so deliciously.”

You are already so full. The thought of what he’s suggesting makes you tighten around him. You try to imagine it, a blue cock, a pale one, both of them moving in you for their enjoyment. It’s too much.

And his words are so heated, so filthy with intent that you nearly come just from them again.

You can hear him grunting, heaving for breath, though you are past the point of cognizance. He grips you in an almost bruising clasp. One hand thrashes down your body again, circling your nub the other still fingering your other entrance. “Perhaps when you are not with child, when I can be as gloriously unrestrained as I wish. Now, I’m going to come, love.” Loki growls from behind you. His voice is so deep, you barely recognize it.

“Both of us,” the other answers. “Me in your mouth and I want you to drink it. All of it.”

It’s their words, their filthy sentiments that make you come undone again. And when you do, you feel both of them finish at the same time. Both of their fingers gripping your body, your hair, anywhere they can touch in an almost bruising grip.

You do as told. You suck, swallow, not allowing any of Loki’s come to escape.

You pull back continuing to languidly pump as Loki pulls out of you.  

You are hauled upright and taken into Loki’s arms, watching as his double disappears. He chuckles, bringing your head to his and kissing you softly. Every ounce of love is poured to your lips.

There aren’t any words. Not as he pulls you into his arms, your body too weak to return his kiss, to touch and feel him as you want. Not as he carries you back into your tiny cottage, your little sanctuary. Not as he wraps you into the blankets, laying next to you and pulling you into his arms.  

“I liked that,” you mumble against his chest finally, your eyes growing heavy from exhaustion.

Loki chuckles. “As did I.”

You smile, threading your hands through his air and kissing his neck. “I love you, Loki.”

He doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t need to.

Because his love is inside of you, swelling and rolling like a drug.

The rest of the day stumbles by on exhausted limbs. Loki and you remain cocooned in your cottage under covers and whispering promises to one another.

You don’t know what comes next, you are afraid to ask. So, you don’t. Instead, you stay just there, in that moment, as you wished.

And finally, when the sun settles behind the tree line when Loki insists that you dress in a black cloak and kisses you softly, you know there’s no escaping what comes next.

Perhaps, you should have asked.

Then, maybe, you’d be prepared.

But when Frigga enters just as Loki clasps your cloak, you are thankful you didn’t.

Embarrassment floods through you, as you are sure that the permeating scent of your sex is thick in the air. Thankfully, the Allmother doesn’t say anything about it.

Instead, she opens her arms, holding out a basket to you as if waiting for you to take it. “Are you ready?”

 

* * *

 

Tumblr: [MichelleLeahhh](https://michelleleahhh.tumblr.com/)

Thank you all so much for your continued support with this story. 

I hope you are enjoying. 

Please leave comments and let me know if you are enjoying. 

 


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